


As the Curtain Falls

by fireaway



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst and Romance, Bisexual Michelle Jones, F/M, Inspired by Music, Non-Explicit Sex, Secret Relationship, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-10-12 04:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20558180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireaway/pseuds/fireaway
Summary: Peter Parker is Hollywood’s hottest, up and coming movie star. Michelle Jones, New York City sweetheart, makes her Broadway debut. It goes without saying that all eyes are on them.Falling in love is the easy part. Dealing with co-stars, ex-girlfriends, and relentless reporters hungry for their next fix is the impossible challenge.So they hide. And they wait. Loving each other in secret can be their saving grace.That is until the whole world starts to notice their tattoos.





	1. Joan of Arc

#### “Match wits with someone at your level.”

######  _—Satisfied,_ Hamilton

They meet at the Met Gala, of all places.

On the first Monday of May, Fifth Avenue is blocked off and barricaded for the most exclusive fundraising benefit of the year. Numerous lights flash when the red carpet is rolled out and the first guest of the night steps onto the stairs. Photographers from all over the country have traveled far and wide to the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in hopes of capturing the perfect picture to publish for the whole world to see.

Fashion and celebrities are all the rage. The Internet is bubbling with activity as it waits for the photos to appear, creeping with anticipation. 

It is essential, absolutely _vital_ to get their shots in at the threshold of the venue. The key moments for the public to see only unfold on those red-carpeted stairs, because once the guests step foot inside, the outside world is shut out. No more photographers in sight. 

Which is why it is best that Peter and Michelle run into each other within the museum. 

The theme is _Armored World: Fashion of Iron and Vibranium._ Guests show up donning artistic interpretations of armor, featuring iron corsets and vibranium gowns. It is a metallic night of trickling energy, lustrous veils, and conductive ornaments, and all through cocktail hour and dinner, the light catches everyone’s attire, a gleam for the biggest night of fashion.

The institute’s exhibition showcases the art of battle garments, solider’s shields, and traditional Wakandan ensembles. One of tonight’s co-chairs is Princess Shuri, and Peter Parker is excited to meet her. 

He is admiring a robe made of glistening vibranium beads when Michelle Jones walks into the room. The jingle of metal sashaying catches his attention, and Peter turns to find the source of the sound.

A tall woman with an auburn bob and lean legs makes her way towards him, wearing a flowing dress, vibranium sown, and parts of armor at her neck, shoulders, and waist. At the end of her long legs are silver heels, complimenting her skin, and a cape matching her dress drags behind and follows her, like a queen in battle gear.

Something about her warns him that he needs to be prepared to fight.

Her face is stoic, steeled eyes, like a warrior at war. She commands the room with her walk, her strut, her posture, and a chill runs down his spine. All it takes is one look at her, and the woman intimidates him to no end. 

She meets his eyes.

Quickly, Peter averts his gaze and whips around to resume his admiration of the vibranium robe. He pretends to be interested in how the beads cascade down the shoulders and spill onto the floor, but in the reflection of the glass, he sees the woman approaching the very display he is viewing. 

The anxiety kicks in, activating his fight or flight mode. Chewing on his lip, he debates if he should run or if he should stay.

There’s no time to decide once she stops right beside him, the jingle of mental sashaying coming to a halt. He fiddles with the buttons of his iron woven coat. Peter is unsure of what to do with himself. 

He freezes and racks his brain for all of the possible scenarios that he can play out.

The display to his left is inviting. Taunting him with the promise of not having to interact with another.

Peter pushes that idea to the side. She only just got here, and it would be rude if he immediately bolts.

Aunt May raised him to be a gentlemen, engrained habits of friendliness and professionalism. _Always be the first to say hello. Introduce yourself,_ she’d say.

But the room is hot, and the nerves are kicking in. He wipes his hands on his pants to no avail. Introducing himself to this warrior of a woman with clammy hands is out of the question. _Sorry, Aunt May._

So Peter stays put and stares at her reflection, quietly hoping that she will move on first.

He should know better. 

Peter is prone to awkward situations. He is practically a magnet. There is no escaping them. They find him wherever he goes. 

The woman looks at him in the reflection, and he flinches.

“I can’t tell if you’re staring at _me_ or the robe.”

She quirks an eyebrow. His eyes bulge. He scolds himself for his inability of being discreet. 

Peter takes a deep breath, summoning every one of Aunt May’s lessons on manners, before turning to face the woman whose ensemble remarkably reminds him of Joan of Arc.

He braces himself to converse with a striking yet terrifying girl but is pleasantly surprised when met with a kinder face than before. A warm face, a welcoming glimmer in her brown eyes.

Her brown eyes are softer, her hands are modestly held together with lips turned into a small smile. The change of body language, the stripping of her stoic front, puts him at ease. 

“Sorry,” he sheepishly shakes his head and returns the smile, “I’m Peter Parker.”

The woman is taller than him by several inches, Peter finding himself having to look up to speak to her. But when she bites the inside of her cheek, something tells him she might be intimidated too. In this way, they are on equal footing. 

“I know who you are. You’re Spider-Man.” She shrugs. “Congratulations on the movie, by the way.”

She tucks her hair behind her ears. By doing this, Peter can see more of the woman’s face. Full brows and glowing, youthful skin. She is stunning. Suddenly, a pang of loss hits his chest. 

Who is this woman?

“Thank you,” he searches her face for any stroke of familiarity, “But I’m afraid I am at a disadvantage.”

Peter concludes this is their first meeting. It is impossible he has seen her before. A woman this beautiful, he would never forget. 

Her smile widens, making her eyes smaller and her cheeks fuller. 

“Michelle Jones,” she reaches her hand for him to shake, “I’m just a little musical theatre nerd. I’m nobody special.”

He rushes to defend her.

“I highly doubt that.”

She blushes, her skin becoming even more colorful. 

Peter glances at her outstretched hand and panics, feeling the still very prominent sweat on his palm.

He winces, “I’m sorry, uh. This is embarrassing, but my hands, they are kind of…”

Michelle saves him from his explanation by lowering her hand and biting back a laugh. She smiles to herself and looks to the floor, and Peter takes the chance to fully study her armor and dress. The attire is fitting for the woman he has seen so far. Hard but malleable. She has a complex nature with a charming exterior and a voice he wants to keep listening to. Will she have dinner with him tonight?

She looks up, eyes wide, and nods.

“I’d love to.”

Peter stares at her in shock. Did he ask that out loud?

“Yes,” this time Michelle does not hold back her laughter, and the sound does something strange to his heart, “You just did it again.”

He flushes in embarrassment, but when he moves towards the next display, she is right there with him. 

They study the art together, leaning towards the glass, tilting their heads to get a better look. In time, they gravitate closer to each other. Their faces are inches apart as they discuss the metal pieces and accessories of the exhibition. He studies how her face looks when she is curious or deep in thought. Her face speaks more than her words, especially her eyes. They convey emotions so openly and transparently. It’s as if she was born to be art. 

Peter learns that Michelle knows vibranium like the back of her hand. She can spot it in a mere glance and describes the process of converting it into energy or sewing it into clothing. It is the most impressive element on the periodic table, she says, in her opinion. Well, opinion or not, Peter has to agree. Vibranium is impressive, and so is Michelle.

“You are amazing,” he blurts out in the middle of her recounting the chemical properties of iron, because, _yeah,_ she knows a lot about that too.

Michelle pauses and turns her gaze to him. A glint sparkles in her eyes. 

That was rude of him, right? To interrupt her while she is speaking?

“I’m not _that_ amazing,” she assures him, “My knowledge isn’t all that impressive, believe me.”

He frantically shakes his head before realizing how eager he seems. Peter clears his throat and tries to think of what to say instead. Play it cool.

“Well, _I_ think you’re amazing, so my opinion still stands.”

At this declaration, she widens her eyes.

Peter mentally slaps himself. 

God, that came out so… entitled. Why does he have to sound so _condescending?_

Michelle stares at him for the longest time, probably waiting for him to take his words back, but he stands there, frozen to his spot. Peter realizes he could really use a drink right about now. They only just met, and he’s already screwing this up. 

But then she tucks her hair behind her ears again, and all of his pent up anxiety dissipates.

“You’re right,” Michelle says, holding his gaze, “Your opinion is valid. So thank you for thinking I’m amazing.”

She smiles, and suddenly, he can move again.

They continue walking. 

“Where did you learn about all of this?” he asks.

A shy smirk creeps onto her face.

“I’m best friends with one of the co-chairs.”

Peter perks up, “Which one?”

Michelle stops at a display of royal Wakandan garments decorated with emeralds, gold, and the metal that can absorb, store, and release a ridiculous amount of kinetic energy. She takes her time surveying the details and the glimmer of vibranium under the spotlight. Then, she turns to him. Peter swears she pauses for dramatic effect. 

“Princess Shuri.”

He gapes and gasps, and she wears a smug smile at his reaction. 

Can anyone blame him? He is a _big_ fan.

“You’re a fan?” 

Peter sputters, “Oh, _am I?_”

Michelle’s joyous laugh tugs at his heart again.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Further inside at the dining area, a pianist plays a modern tune. Blue and purple lights illuminate the room, giving the illusion of an energy’s pulse. If one listens close enough, there is a low hum throughout the museum. The art lives and breathes all around. 

Peter finds his table while Michelle goes off to request a seating change. Ned Leeds sits in the chair next to his, thumbing at the jeweled centerpiece. A glass sculpture of a crown is crested with sapphires and embedded with amethysts. Ned practically drools on the gemstones. Before his friend gets the idea of snatching the crown and placing it atop his head, Peter approaches and slaps Ned on his back. 

The crown dangerously tips underneath Ned’s fingertips, and he curses aloud, earning a few disdainful glares. 

“Peter, what the fuck?” he snaps and flails to steady the sculpture.

Peter plops down into his seat, oblivious to the awaiting disaster at the hands of Ned. He scans the room for Michelle, wearing a smile he cannot control. He spots her speaking to a woman in a pantsuit, pointing to another table and then to his. Peter sighs, his smile growing impossibly wider. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” he speaks to Ned without ever looking at him. 

Ned finally manages to balance the jeweled glass crown and risks a glance at Peter’s infatuated gaze. 

However, Peter’s eyes never leave Michelle. 

“But I need you to be my wingman tonight.”

At this, Ned loses his grip on the sculpture once again. 

It teeters and topples onto the tabletop. A sapphire breaks off and tumbles into his bowl, and Ned rushes to get the centerpiece upright. The loud clatter of jewel against silverware does not even phase Peter. While Ned tries and fails to reattach the loose gem, Peter still stares at the girl who is making their way towards them. 

Finally, he faces Ned and grabs his arm. Thankfully, he grabs the arm that is currently nowhere near the glass. 

“Michelle Jones is sitting at our table, and I think something can happen between us. Do you think you can help me out?” 

Peter blurts out and blushes furiously. Then, he notices the deep blue stone in his best friend’s hand and a gaping hole in the crown at the center of the table. His eyes go back and forth between the sapphire and the centerpiece before he exclaims. 

“Ned, what the fuck?” 

Before Ned can defend himself, a gorgeous woman, who Ned assumes to be his friend’s newest crush, pulls out a chair and seats herself at Peter’s opposite side. She and Peter exchange a look as she settles in, and Ned raises an eyebrow from beside them. 

Why does Peter need a wingman to get a girl who _clearly_ likes him back?

They smile at each other, and the action urges Ned to look away. The pair are having shared moments. Dinner is being served in half an hour, yet Ned Leeds is already the third wheel.

“Shuri is busy right now,” Michelle informs Peter, “But I’ll introduce you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, but really, there’s no rush,” he shyly smiles, “I, uh, I am perfectly happy talking to you for the whole night.”

There it is. That curious look again. Before she can respond, Ned clears his throat. 

Peter jumps in his seat.

“Oh! How rude of me!” he gestures to his friend, “This is Ned Leeds, my best friend.”

Ned purses his lips, “I’m your assistant.”

Peter grits his teeth through his smile, “_And_ my best friend.”

Ned snorts and rolls his eyes.

“You don’t pay me enough to take on both roles.”

Peter fully turns to face Ned, his worst wingman ever.

“_Dude,_ we grew up together.”

“_Dude,_ I’m just messing with you,” Ned shakes his head.

Michelle interjects and leans forward, “It’s nice to meet you, Ned. I’m Michelle Jones.”

“Oh, trust me,” he laughs and shakes her hand, “I know.”

She furrows her eyebrows, and Peter’s face heats up. He sends a glare at Ned, who completely ignores him. 

“So where did you grow up together?”

At the center of the floor, a band finishes setting up in the clearing, as the boys answer simultaneously, “Queens.”

Michelle gasps, and her hand shoots to grasp Peter’s arm.

“I _live_ in Queens!” she smiles widely. 

Peter tries not to think about her hand on his bicep. His coat is thick with iron and wool, but the warmth of the fabric had never felt too hot. Not until now, as she holds onto him. 

“No way!” Ned replies, oblivious to Peter’s minor freakout, “I mean, Peter and I left a few years ago, but his aunt still lives there.”

“That’s really cool,” Michelle meets Peter’s eyes, “Do you visit your aunt often?”

He shrugs, “Whenever I can. I’m visiting her tomorrow, actually.”

She lets go of his arm and rests her hand on the table, and Peter immediately moves his hand next to hers. She notices and smiles to herself. 

A bright light flips on and shines at the center of the room, catching everyone’s attention. The band waits in the shadows behind their instruments as a lady in a glistening purple gown and armor covering her shoulders and breasts makes her way into the spotlight. Beaded stones are draped and criss crossed around her neck and a string of round amethysts are wrapped through her hair that sits high on her head. Vibranium bangles hug her wrists, and as she slowly turns in a circle to face the guests, she brings the microphone up to her lips. How she carries herself lets everybody know that she is the most important person in the room. 

A hush falls upon the guests like a spell. 

Peter holds his breath and waits for her to speak. 

“Good evening everyone, and thank you all for coming to this very special event,” she speaks with a heavy accent, “I am so honored to be standing before you tonight. So much science and technology was put into the planning of this benefit, and tonight’s theme is something that I hold near and dear to my heart. It was truly a labor of love.”

She takes a deep breath.

“As princess of Wakanda, I am excited and proud to be representing my country and sharing my culture with the museum.”

The excitement is too much that Peter grabs onto Michelle’s hand. He is so in awe of the princess that he does this without realizing.

Michelle freezes at the contact and looks to him. His eyes are doelike as he listens to every word that comes out of Shuri’s mouth.

“Are you in love with her or something?” she jokes, breaking him out of his daze. 

Peter raises his eyebrows in surprise. He takes into account the teasing in her voice and the glint in her eyes. 

“Why?” he challenges, “You jealous?”

At this, Michelle averts her eyes and fights a smile. He notices how warm her hand feels in his. 

“No,” she meets his eyes again, “I just... saw you first.”

She’s not jealous. Michelle Jones is not the jealous type, not even a little bit, but he can feel that this is more than playful banter or harmless flirting. She is marking her claim, expressing an interest, making a declaration. Something in her eyes asks him, _Are you up for it?_

Peter knows he is. 

Feeling bold, he caresses her hand and gently squeezes it. He begs the butterflies in his stomach to settle down. 

When dinner is served, Michelle flags down Shuri and introduces her to Peter and Ned. They fly to their feet when she arrives, nearly causing a bottle of wine to roll off the table. The princess eyes the sapphire that crudely rests separately from the centerpiece but refrains from pointing it out as the boys gush over her. Ned fiddles with his tie. Peter shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The two are a clumsy, fumbling mess, and Shuri shoots a look at Michelle, quietly judging and asking her, _These are the boys you wanted to sit with?_

Peter apologizes excessively. He bows, and when Princess Shuri assures him it is not necessary, he stands at attention and apologizes. When she compliments the iron in his intricate woven coat, he apologizes for not wearing vibranium. When Shuri excuses herself after saying it was nice meeting them, Peter apologizes for taking up her time.

“You say you’re sorry a lot,” Michelle mentions to him afterwards. 

“Sorry,” he mutters instinctively before realizing what he said, “Gosh, I said it again. Sorry!”

“And you said it again just now.”

Peter groans in frustration.

However, Michelle throws her head back and laughs, so maybe it was all worth it. 

The three of them order champagne, and Ned starts to wonder if he can request songs for the band to play. Carefully, he makes his way to the center of the floor, creeps up next to the violinist, and asks if they can play a song for him. Once he returns to the table, the band erupts into “September.”

Michelle giggles and leans into Peter’s shoulder.

“Ned, why did you request this song? It’s only May!”

Peter gapes at her and bursts into laughter.

“That’s my aunt’s name!” 

“Aunt May?” she gasps.

“Aunt May!”

They fall into a fit of giggles and down their champagne. 

Ned proves that his best friend never needed a wingman when Michelle and Peter pile into a limousine together. The spring air is chilly at night, but they are tipsy enough that it does not bother them. If anything, the two feel extremely hot that Peter throws off his coat and Michelle starts slipping off her dress before they even get the hotel room open. 

They are both smiling so widely, it looks like it hurts. His cheeks are pinkish, her eyes are crazed, and they appear like a young couple who had a little too much to drink, drunk on life and each other. 

Peter unlocks the room, and the door flies open under their weight as they press against it. They stumble backwards, colliding into a potted plant, and doubling over in laughter as they try to find the light switch. Michelle finds it, and the hotel room floods with a warm light. They asked for a flat screen TV and a suite with room service, but at the moment, the only furniture of interest is the queen-sized bed. A welcome brochure, swan-shaped towels, and dark chocolates await them on the blankets. 

They barely spare the items a glance before Michelle shoves them to the floor, pushes Peter onto the bed, and finally, meets her lips with his. He tastes like sweet bubbly. It intoxicates her even more. He laughs against her lips. She feels him smiling and realizes her intoxication is coming from something entirely different. It’s that beautiful sound that really does the trick.

She breaks the kiss.

“Be right back,” and she rushes into the bathroom. A minute later, Peter hears the toilet flush. 

_Pee before and after sex,_ he faintly recalls his aunt telling him. Then, he immediately shakes his head. Having his aunt’s voice in his head at a time like this is a real turn-off. 

The bathroom door opens, and Peter should have known that when it comes to Michelle Jones, it’s not that easy to get turned off. 

She had removed her auburn wig and dress, and soft brown curls cascade over her bare shoulders and collarbones. Peter gulps as he takes in the sight of her and her long legs. Even without heels, she is taller than him, still intimidating him to no end. No one else is around, but Michelle still manages to command the room. Her eyes lock onto his. She wants him. 

Lucky for her, the feeling is mutual. 

After he uses the bathroom, he meets her in bed. She pushes off his shirt, and he leaves hot kisses down her neck. She tugs the belt at his pants, meeting his waist with hers. 

“Promise me this will mean something in the morning,” she gasps when he sucks on a mark he left on her shoulder. 

He pulls away and leans his forehead against hers. 

“Only if you promise to keep seeing me after tonight.”

Peter presses a kiss on her forehead, and Michelle briefly closes her eyes at the intimate contact.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Parker?” she teases. 

“That depends,” he smirks, and she bites her lip, “Will you say yes?”

Michelle rolls them over so that she sits on top. Peter has a feeling that she is used to being the boss. He thinks it suits her.

She goes to work on his belt, skillfully undoing the buckle and pulling the waistband down.

“Let’s see how you do tonight, and maybe I will.”

Peter eyes her up. Michelle is a sight to behold with her luscious curls and sly smile as she straddles his waist. With shining eyes, she looks down to him, challenging Peter to show her a good time.

So he grips her hips, pulls her onto his face, and shows it to her. 

When they fall asleep, they are a mess of wet hair from a shared shower and entangled limbs under the covers. In her dreams, she envisions a life where every night she falls asleep like this, wrapped in Peter Parker’s embrace. 

In the morning, Michelle awakes to an empty bed. 

She fleetingly allows herself to be disappointed, chiding herself that dreams are solely meant to live in her head. Men are incapable of fulfilling her, including dorky movie stars like Peter Parker.

She gets up and drags herself to the bathroom. However, stainless steel covers and fresh sunflowers catch her attention near the doorway, with a note signed by the man himself.

_Gone to get breakfast with Aunt May, but I ordered room service for you.  
I meant what I said last night. Meet me for lunch, please?_

He left his number at the end, and Michelle hurries to text him. As she fingers the petals of the sunflowers and uncovers her plated meal, she wonders how intuitive Peter has to be to order her favorite breakfast of a cheesy omelette and Belgium waffles.

Her phone chimes with a text from Peter. She opens it to an article about the best dressed guests at the Met Gala and his message. 

_When were you going to tell me you’re on Broadway?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of this fic is from "secret love song" by little mix!
> 
> **DISCLAIMER - PLEASE READ!**  
to some of you, i think it's pretty obvious what one of the biggest inspirations is for this fic. however, i will never explicitly mention or address it. also, i want to clarify that i have no opinions or beliefs on the matter. people's relationships, especially private ones, are nobody's business, and i hope that fact shines through in this fic!


	2. Angelica Schuyler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Michelle have a summer fling that evolves and grows. Open to wherever it might lead. Anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> I added a rating to this work and finally decided on mature. I also updated the tags and added a couple of characters, so if you're curious to see who else will show up, check those out! however, I have no archive warnings at the moment, but that may change in the future.
> 
> this is peter and michelle's first summer together, and it's new, it's light, and there's no drama (yet) lol. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

#### “You could be my dirty little secret.”

######  _—Tell Em,_ Sabrina Carpenter

May Parker is New York City’s biggest Broadway fanatic. 

So imagine the frenzy she is in when she learns her nephew met Michelle Jones at the Met Gala. 

“Am I hearing you correctly?” she practically yells over breakfast.

“Um,” Peter pauses his fork midair, “Yes?”

May scoffs and shoves her toast into her mouth, her words muffled through the bread, “You said you met Michelle Jones?” 

After he slowly nods, partly in confusion and partly in fear of his aunt’s frantic eyes, Aunt May launches into a spiel about sold-out shows and Aaron Burr. _Here we go,_ Peter says to himself. He chews on his slightly burnt pancakes and momentarily tunes her out as she tries to start a discussion about another Broadway show. 

She does this every time. He should expect it by now. After all, he had made the conscious decision to unfollow her Spotify profile months ago, because her activity solely consisted of endless streams of popular musicals. _Hamilton_ is only one of them. 

“Peter? Are you even listening to me?”

His head snaps up like a deer caught in headlights. 

“Huh?”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Even now as an adult, you don’t listen to a word I say.”

Initially, this annoys him, but as he looks at the faint wrinkles on her forehead and the bags under her eyes, Peter realizes that growing up means watching Aunt May grow old. 

She is still a young soul, flirtatious and sunny, but everyone can see there is a certain wisdom about her, one that can only stem from experience and not from age. May is a woman who had to take on the weight of the world sooner than expected and as alone as ever. Losing Peter’s parents, losing her husband, it was a lot. Peter used to wonder how she managed to live with the pain and carry on. 

“I’m sorry, Aunt May. Tell me again.”

From this great loss, Peter came as her greatest gift. Therefore, he pays attention as she repeats herself. He digests her words, taking mental notes for future quizzes. He hears familiar names like George Washington and unfamiliar ones like Brad Davis, yet when she mentions some girl called Angelica, he starts choking on his apple juice. 

“Peter, I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”

If her nephew’s face turning bright red while he coughs his lungs out worries her in the slightest, Aunt May does not show it. Instead, she quietly sips her coffee and patiently waits for him to recover. 

“She didn’t say anything about Broadway!” he manages to choke out and vaguely recalls Michelle mentioning musical theatre.

“But you never thought to Google her?” she asks in disbelief. 

Peter shakes his head and regains his composure. 

“No! I was preoccupied!”

Aunt May sets down her mug and raises her eyebrows. 

“Doing what?”

He almost screams. Heat rushes to his face as flashes of Michelle’s bare legs and sultry moans and heavy exhales of each other’s names flood his mind. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

“Nothing!” Peter blurts out, “I just was, uh, doing something, and then I went to the, um-”

He scans the diner, searching for inspiration. His eyes land on the bathroom door.

“I had too much to drink, and I was throwing up a lot!” he answers, probably too eagerly for someone who supposedly had spent the night puking his guts out. However, the lie is successful, and her motherly instincts click in.

“Oh my gosh, are you hungover?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Do you need ibuprofen?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Is your body in any pain?”

“I’m good, I _promise._”

The last thing Peter needs is for his aunt to discover that he slept with a Broadway star and that the only thing bothering his stomach are the diner’s less than appetizing food. He cannot even begin to explain how he plans on seeing Michelle soon for lunch. He worries that his aunt would beg for an autograph. Or worse. Ask to tag along.

Minutes later, when Michelle texts him good morning, he hides his phone underneath the table.

For now, Aunt May does not need to know. 

At noon, Peter meets Michelle at a restaurant somewhere in Manhattan. They request for a private booth, so neither of them have any qualms about unapologetically checking each other out from across the table. Peter and his biceps wearing a casual white button down. Michelle and her collarbones accentuated with crystal necklaces.

“So you looked me up?” she peers at him over her menu. 

He catches her eyes and blushes, “Not exactly.”

A waiter arrives to ask for their drinks, and Michelle fidgets with the strap of her white blouse when their server openly shifts their gaze from her to Peter, eyes laced with recognition and curiosity. 

“Have you always known?” she asks once they are alone. 

He smiles softly and shakes his head.

“My aunt told me. She has a Broadway obsession,” Peter brings his hand up to his face and separates his thumb and index finger by a centimeter, “Just a little one.”

At this, Michelle leans forward, and Peter instantly leans back into his seat. She rests her chin in the palm of her hand and quirks an eyebrow. 

“You talked to your aunt about me?”

Peter briefly squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching his nose and face. Quietly, he chides himself. Who tells their aunt about a girl they had _just_ met? Especially when all they did was sleep together? He opens his eyes to find a smug grin on her face. It is blatantly obvious that he is crushing hard on Michelle. There is no denying it, so Peter decides to own up to it. 

“I mentioned how I ran into this amazing girl, and she freaked out when she learned it was you,” he watches the grin slowly leave her face, “So you _are_ amazing. I’m not the only one who thinks that.”

Her eyes shine as she stares at him with such intensity he feels like he might explode. It makes sense now that he knows she belongs to one of the biggest shows Broadway has ever seen. There is something theatrical about her, an expressive aura graces her very being. A shimmering star, invoking a spark inside of him. It is impossible to look away. Even without the dress and armor, there is no question that Michelle is art. 

She quickly recovers, and her grin makes its way onto her lips again.

“Did you tell her anything else?”

“No,” he replies, “That’s all I told her.”

She holds back a smile that fights to spread over her entire face. 

“Would you be mad if _I_ told someone what happened last night?”

Peter narrows his eyes. 

“Why? Who did you tell?”

Michelle merely shrugs and makes a show of looking around the restaurant.

“Only my best friend.”

He lurches forward, placing his elbows onto the table. Aunt May would be disappointed.

“You told the princess?” he whispers hurriedly. 

“I told _Shuri,_” she corrects him, “Strictly as my best friend. No royal business.”

Peter tugs at the collar of his shirt and shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling hot and claustrophobic.

“She’s still a princess!”

Michelle flips through her menu and tries not to laugh at his distress, for his own sake. She calls the waiter over and places an order. Peter does not pay attention to the dish she chooses, but he asks for whatever she is having. 

“So, how did she react?” he continues in a mild panic, “Does she approve? What does she think of me?”

“It’s funny how you’re so anxious to know what she thinks of you, but you never thought to ask for _my_ impression.”

She tilts her head to look at him from a different angle.

“I mean,” he shrugs, and before he can stop himself, teases, “I think I have a pretty good idea of your impression, judging from the very enthusiastic sounds you were making when I-”

She cuts him off with a light kick at his shin and laughs, “Get out of here!” 

He flushes a faint pink. He is terrible at flirting. Always had a bad history with it. Inappropriate jokes, bad puns, typically socially awkward. No one finds him funny, but Michelle’s laugh soundly rings in his ears. 

“What do you think of me?” Peter asks shyly, “You already know what I think of you.”

Michelle bites the inside of her cheek, “I think you’re really handsome, and… a _big_ dork,” she plays with the napkin on her lap, “But we don’t know each other enough to think much else.”

She speaks quietly among the chatter of the restaurant, but he is so attentive that he hears her loud and clear. She is curious, he sees it in her eyes, and that makes him hopeful. 

“We should change that,” Peter states, blood rushing to his ears. 

He is making the first move, and it scares him. Heat recklessly tears at his skin. They were intimate last night. He remembers touching her, kissing her, _feeling_ her. Skin against skin, hands tangled in their hair, her cold feet gently brushing his as they sleep. But this, right here, he craves more. Peter is eager to learn, still a student well after high school. He wants to know her and for her to know him. 

Their date is only starting yet he finds himself counting down the days until he returns to New York City. Will she see him when he comes back?

Michelle nods like she heard his question. 

“We should.”

Because of the distance, they decide to keep this thing between them casual and simple. Absolutely nothing is exclusive. Both of them are free to see other people. Except, unknowingly to either of them, neither Peter nor Michelle actually do this. Schedules are tight. As Hollywood’s young, rising star and Broadway’s newest, dazzling Angelica Schuyler, the pair are booked and busy. They simply cannot find the time to date anyone else. 

It only takes them the span of one summer to realize that they never wanted to anyway. 

After their lunch, before Peter leaves for Los Angeles, the two of them create an arrangement. Their own version of 21 Questions. For every date they go on, they share one fact about themselves that nobody else knows. It can be a hidden talent, a guilty pleasure, or whatever nagging thought keeps them up in the middle of the night. Therefore, eager-to-learn Peter Parker uses every excuse in the book to visit the east coast, more specifically Queens, New York. 

More _importantly,_ Michelle Jones. 

When he returns a week and a half later, he drags her to see the new _Stars Wars_ movie. As they tucked their heads deep into their hoodies and found their seats, he could not stop babbling about that one time he ran into Mark Hamill in Malibu. 

But Michelle is evil. She is sly and slick, so of course she chooses to share her secret during the climax, the most pivotal scene of the film. 

“I have an anonymous blog for Harry Potter,” she whispers in his ear.

Peter whips his head to face her in the darkness. Through the light from the screen, his widened eyes and agape mouth are barely visible. 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Parker, I’m being so serious right now.”

He tries to search her face for any indications of dishonesty, but it is proving to be difficult in the movie theater. The hood of her sweatshirt is also blocking one of her eyes. 

“If that’s true, then you have to show me some proof.”

Michelle leans in close enough that Peter notices the soft smile ghosting her lips. The scent of her vanilla perfume clouds his senses. Her warm breath on his neck, and it’s overwhelming, but he does not shy away. 

“Well, I can’t right now,” she points out, “It is socially unacceptable and just straight up disrespectful to use your phone during the movies.”

_Very well,_ he thinks, and they do not discuss it any further for the remainder of the film. But before Michelle can lean away, Peter covers the space between them and catches her lips with his for a short second. A stolen kiss in the dim glow of the galaxy. 

“I believe you,” he whispers. 

When the screen goes dark for a moment, she finds his lips for a second kiss. The air is knocked out of his lungs as he plummets into darkness, vanilla and _Michelle._

The movie ends, and they keep their heads down, waiting for the theater to clear out. Then, she shows him the blog, scrolls through a few posts and lets him read a couple of her analyses. 

Peter often checks the blog during the following weeks. He checks in between table reads and meetings. He memorizes the characters, studies the storylines and even takes an online quiz to find out which house he would be in. Every quiz placed him in Hufflepuff, although he was almost certain he belonged in Gryffindor. One night after a long day of fitting for his and Liz Allan’s photoshoot, he calls Michelle for a quick discussion about his newfound interest in her interest. They end up talking for hours. 

“You’re _totally_ Hufflepuff,” Michelle insists. 

FaceTime steps in when his New York visits are not possible. Her face fills the screen, occupying his phone that is otherwise flooding with messages from Ned. With a flick of his finger, he dismisses the stream of notifications about his upcoming events and appearances. He will read them in the morning. 

“Well, how about you?” Peter asks with droopy eyes, watching Michelle as she yawns, “Which house are you in?”

She flashes a proud smile, “Slytherin, of course.”

Michelle lies in bed wearing the T-shirt he had left behind two weeks ago. Even miles away, she still manages to fall asleep beside him and wrapped in his clothes. 

“I have to know,” he drawls and squints his eyes despite the lowest brightness setting, “Are Hufflepuff and Slytherin… compatible?”

A moment passes before Michelle bursts into laughter and helplessly lets out a snort. Peter shoves his head into his pillows and hides his reddening face. 

“You are such a nerd,” she struggles to say while catching her breath. 

Once her laughter dies down and he is sure his face returned to its normal shade, Peter peeks a glance at her. She smiles, unruly curls fanned around her head, wearing big glasses that have slid down to rest at the tip of her nose. A giggle escapes when she sees that he had come out of hiding. His heart begins to ache. 

There is too much distance between them. Michelle is miles away, giggling and smiling on the other side of the country. Peter wishes he was back in Queens. 

“Oh, _I’m_ the nerd?” he raises an eyebrow in challenge, “Says the girl who runs a Harry Potter blog.”

She rolls her eyes, “I never said _I’m_ not a nerd. I just said that _you_ are one.”

“So are you saying that you’re _also_ a nerd?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you implied it,” he points at her, and realizing that he’s right, she groans. 

With a sigh, Michelle closes her eyes, and Peter does not let himself forget that New York is three hours ahead of California. She has had a long day at rehearsals and performing onstage, so if she falls asleep on him for the third night in a row, he cannot complain. 

“Whatever, loser,” she mumbles so softly that he is not certain she is even awake. 

Michelle falls asleep within the next five minutes. He bids her goodnight before ending the call. As soon as his phone turns off, he misses her. It’s become a routine how much he misses her, so if Peter gets himself off in an attempt to replicate her warmth in his bed, then nobody has to know. 

A week later, when he squeezes in a Queens visit for a little less than 48 hours, he does not tell anyone but her. He will pay a visit to Aunt May next time. Ned can handle a couple of days without knowledge of his whereabouts. It is Michelle who he wants to make up time with. 

She wraps him in her warmth, burning his skin with a trail of hot kisses, and ignites him to a fiery ecstasy for the duration of the night before he leaves her again. He feels her everywhere, surrounding him. She whimpers, because she feels him too. He hears her voice begging him to talk her down, because it’s too much, they’re too high, she’s going to crash. Peter caresses her hair as she leans against his chest for support. He describes a funny story about the other day at work, when he had mistakenly introduced himself to Tony Stark’s stunt double instead of Tony Stark. Michelle laughs breathlessly, and that alone causes heat to spread throughout his body like a wildfire until suddenly, she collapses onto him. 

As they catch their breaths, Peter realizes his own hands could never do her justice. Replicating Michelle’s warmth is impossible. 

At half past midnight, she rolls over and giggles into his hair after he says another one of his dumb jokes, something about the alphabet and U and I. His dumb heart starts aching again. This moment is what he wanted a week ago. To be lying here in this bed with Michelle as she smiles and laughs and radiates. The sound of her is contagious, so he rolls into a fit of giggles along with her. Peter wishes he could live in this moment forever.

“I miss you,” Michelle whispers in between crumpled sheets.

The cool air from the fan hits her face. Wisps of her hair wildly flies around, and Peter reaches to tuck them behind her ear.

He beams at her, “What do you mean? I’m right here.” 

“You are,” she nods, resting her hand over his and holding it in place against her cheek, “But you’re leaving again in the morning,” she shrugs with a sad smile, “So I miss you.”

Maybe it’s the look on her face or her soft hand gripping his. Or it could be how his leg fits perfectly between hers, gradually pulling each other closer. Peter could blame it on the city lights streaming in through the window or the faint smell of their leftover lasagna wafting in from the kitchen, but the reason why he comes back every time has nothing to do with the physical things. It has everything to do with his heart.

“I miss you too.”

For the month of July, he flies out every week. Peter finally spills the beans to Ned, who isn’t all that surprised considering Peter cannot keep a secret from his best friend even if his life depended on it. Chasing this high, longing for her every minute, Peter and Michelle call each other every day, and with every call they learn a new secret. No one but Ned knows, but Peter had the biggest crush on Aladdin when he was younger, and Michelle yawns at his lack of originality, _“Haven’t we all? You’re not special.”_ With every date, they find a new way to sneak around the city. Every other borough is always better than Manhattan, and it takes Peter a few accidental run-ins with fans to realize this. With every visit, Aunt May grows more suspicious. He visits under the guise of fake interviews, pretend photoshoots and homesickness, but he can never come up with a good enough excuse about where he goes to sleep instead of at her apartment. 

With every hello, Michelle’s smile gets brighter, and with every goodbye, his heart hurts a little bit more than the last time. 

On the second Saturday of August, Aunt May figures it out. 

“You don’t have to come and visit me all the time, you know?” 

He shows up at her doorstep with a baseball cap hiding his hair and dark shades covering his eyes. A duffle bag is slung over his right shoulder, a sheepish smile on his face. 

“Don’t you miss me?” he asks as he makes his way past her and into the apartment. 

Peter opens the fridge and stares into it, searching for something to snack on. There is a salad and dressing, some hard boiled eggs and a few wine coolers. He hovers his hand over a week old pizza slice, before recoiling and shaking his head. Nothing he finds is appealing, and he closes the door to meet her unamused eyes.

“Of course, I miss you,” she goes to hug him, “But I have a life.”

They pull apart, and he rips his sunglasses off, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

All of a sudden, he notices the flowery, red sundress and the faint trace of makeup that his aunt wears. Her long hair is down instead of pulled back, and beige heels sit near the doorway. She looks like a woman on her way out to have brunch, and Peter happened to barge in, unannounced.

“Hot date?” he asks, and May shrugs, “I guess so. It’s nothing serious. I’m not there yet.”

He crosses his arms and watches as she slips her shoes on. The thought of Aunt May trying to move on causes an uneasy feeling to sit in his stomach. 

“Anyone I know?” 

She shakes her head, “No, I don’t think so. I met them at a show the other day.”

She rummages through her purse and pulls out a bronze Playbill of a man’s silhouette replacing the top point of a star. May flings it onto the kitchen counter beside Peter, and his eyes zone in on the name _Hamilton._ All of his concerns about his aunt’s love life fly out the window. His body turns cold, the hairs on his arms stand up, and the vibration of his phone going off fails to pull his eyes away. Aunt May turns to fix her hair in the mirror. 

“Michelle Jones is something else,” she comments, and he stills at the mention of her name, “Not only does she have talent, she’s got heart.”

He stays frozen in place. Any sudden movements might set off an alarm or pull a trigger. The bag on his shoulder feels heavier now, but the weight cannot compare to the weight of this secret on his chest. 

His aunt does not need to know.

“Wow,” Peter gulps with wide eyes and stares at the back of May’s head, “_Does_ she really?”

She plucks her keys from the wall and throws them into her purse. Her hair swings as she swivels around to face him, cocking a hip, a smirk in perfect position. His aunt is so cool. He blinks and almost misses when she winks.

“Yeah, and not to mention she’s beautiful,” May grabs a denim jacket and starts toward the door, “Be sure to tell her that when you see her later. Okay?”

He is stuck in a daze when he murmurs, “Okay,” and then, she shuts the door behind her, snapping him back to reality. 

Peter clears his throat and plays with the hem of his shirt. He pulls himself onto a high stool, needing to sit down after feeling weak on his feet, and speaks to no one but himself in the empty apartment.

“So, she knows,” he nods slowly, letting the gravity of those words sink in, “That’s cool.”

Michelle, on the other hand, does not think that’s cool.

“You never told her?” she exclaims over the phone.

She’s got a show at two o’clock, and her face is halfway through makeup. Weekend shows are the most daunting, because the people, the tourists, the eyes set on her triples in amount. They are why despite the many times he flew to New York for her, she never asks Peter to come to a show. In fact, she strictly forbade him from popping up and watching, because his presence would only make the experience even more nerve-wracking. 

“I thought it might complicate things,” he settles on saying.

Someone’s performing vocal warm-ups in the background, a hair dryer switches on and several men belt into “Guns and Ships.” Even Peter knows of the song. Michelle sighs. He hears the sound of a door closing, and all at once, the busy noise of backstage preparations is shut out. 

“Why would telling her complicate anything?” she asks when she returns to the phone.

Peter can think of a few reasons. He has a whole collection of them banked in his head. For starters, they are not a couple. Sure, they may be _dating_ but not exclusively. Although for him, it’s very much exclusive. He cannot even remember the last person he was mildly interested in. There is also the possibility that Michelle could be currently dating other people, and he would not have a clue. 

The other reason stems from the previous one. Peter likes her… like _checking his phone every two minutes, waiting for a notification from his favorite person, booking flights for every week, losing sleep just to talk to her, head over heels, whipped times three thousand_ likes her. Yet he has no idea if she feels the same way. So he stays quiet. Never the casual kind, always the romantic type, Peter Parker hopes that at this stage, Michelle Jones is more than just curious. He hopes that by the time summer comes to an end, they are far from over. 

“I thought you wanted to keep things light and breezy,” he carefully speaks, bracing himself for her response, “Unless, you changed your mind?”

He cannot see her face, which may be for the best, because Michelle’s hand accidentally goes a little too high with the mascara wand, painting a big black mess on her eyelid. Frustrated, she yanks tissues from a drawer and wipes at her eyes, all while ruminating on the idea versus the reality of a relationship with a movie star. From her experience, movie stars are flaky, and all they do is lie. Putting on an act goes beyond what they do for a living. In Hollywood, it’s a lifestyle, and Michelle is unsure if she can handle it a second time.

Her mouth turns dry, and she swallows to get some feeling in her throat. 

“I didn’t,” she answers, before realizing she is not being clear enough, “Change my mind, that is.”

However, a nagging thought invades her mind all throughout her performance. It will not let her rest until she addresses it.

_Peter Parker is different._

Despite her subtle rejection, Peter still showers her with kisses and cooks dinner later that night. Playfully, he splashes water on her as they wash the dishes and afterwards, sits through her agonizing binging of videos about conspiracy theories and unsolved murders. When a spark of inspiration strikes, but she is unable to locate her sketchbook, he lets her doodle on his arm and tries not to flinch when the pen tickles his skin. 

“Should I be worried about how ticklish I am if I ever get a tattoo?” Peter wonders aloud.

Michelle draws petals on his outer wrist and colors them in with the black ink.

“It depends. Tattoos are mostly just pain.”

Her tongue peeks out from the corner of her lips, and Peter cannot decide if he should study the developing flower on his skin or the way her mouth looks when she is focused. 

“How do you know?” he asks, “You don’t have any tattoos.”

She pauses once she finishes her sketch of a black dahlia and lightly traces it with her thumb. The summer evening air is hot, but the strong blast of air conditioning springs goosebumps onto his arms. Or at least that’s what he tells himself when she peers up at him.

She challenges, “Are you sure about that?” 

They go to bed, and Peter takes his time surveying every inch of her body. His eyes take a snapshot of each shadow cast onto her skin and the gleams of sweat all over her neck. Cheeks tinted pink, toes curled and fingers gripping the sheets. He searches for any signs of ink. 

He observes from every position. Spreads her out in front of him and lays her on her back. His mouth travels up and down her body and goes down on her until she taps out. Then, he flips her to her side and reaches around her waist, working her with his fingers. That, she can handle. Michelle mewls, and he strains, “Baby, _fuck,_” but he can’t get distracted. He has a mission to complete, a tattoo to find. Peter moves her hair to kiss her shoulder blade. Still, no ink.

Then, she gets on her knees and presses the side of her face into the bed. A pillow under her stomach, aiding in raising her hips. Peter’s hands desperately explore her curves, his senses heightened to the little hairs at the small of her back. He feels down her legs to reach her feet. 

_Where is that damn tattoo?_

He enters after he lifts her body upright and presses her against his chest. She gasps at their closeness. His breath is hot in her ear as he describes how good she feels, how tight she is, asking if she can feel how much he wants her. 

“Please,” she pleads when he doesn’t move.

This is how he takes her, climbing higher than ever, before falling over the edge. No one has ever sounded more beautiful than how Michelle sounds as she screams his name. 

He captures her lips with his to suppress the sound, but her moan in his mouth creates a new sensation. With one final thrust, Peter sees stars. As his head clears and the stars change into her face, he really cannot tell the difference. 

“So did you find it?” she asks with a lazy smile. 

Her lips are pink and swollen, all thanks to him, he realizes. Then, he gets an idea. 

Peter kisses her again. Michelle tastes like an adventure that never ends. He wishes to go everywhere and explore, study everything and learn, kiss her senseless whenever he wants. Her lips quiver against his, and that is how he knows. 

He bites and tugs at her lip while he pulls away, and she murmurs, “I can’t fucking believe you.”

With caution, he uses his fingers to gently stretch her bottom lip downwards, revealing faded words in black ink.

“Love more,” he reads and meets her eyes, “I love it.”

Peter does not know what he expected, maybe a look of pride or another one of her smug smiles. But instead she frowns, and instantly, he wishes he could take it back. 

“I don’t,” she replies, and he has to know.

“Why?”

“It’s a secret,” Michelle answers, pulling away from him, “One day I’ll tell you about it.”

He lets her go. There is a promise of _one day,_ and that is enough.

“Only when you’re ready.”

And that is how _she_ knows. Peter is different in every way that matters, which is why during the last week of August, Michelle takes a leap of faith. 

He answers on the third ring. When she willingly and eagerly invites him to one of her shows, he does a double take.

“Are you for real right now?” 

Because he has to be sure. Peter needs to be certain that this is what she wants. She should not only be allowing this to happen because she thinks she owes it to him. Michelle will never owe him anything. 

“I’m so for real right now,” she deadpans.

“But are you one hundred percent sure?” he asks again, and Michelle wishes she can reach through her phone and slap him, “Because you sound like you’re only sixty-seven percent sure.”

“Peter, I’m one hundred percent sure, so are you coming or not?”

Within five minutes, he books another flight to JFK. He books it with such ease, like he has a habit of flying to New York every week. It’s become second nature to travel back and forth for the entirety of the summer that it sounds pretty ridiculous how Peter is traveling all this way for a girl. 

On Friday, it hits Peter how far they’ve come from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as he and Ned step through the entrance of the Richard Rodgers Theatre. Peter is dressed to the nines holding a bouquet of red roses. A white envelope sits in his sweater’s pocket, addressed to Michelle Jones, containing a letter signed and delivered with love. 

He sends the flowers and the letter backstage, then proceeds to find his seat. Ned notices Peter’s leg bouncing up and down and tries to relieve him of his anxiousness. There is no reason for Peter to be nervous when he is not the one performing. 

“Yeah, but, I’m scared to see her,” Peter confesses, “I kind of poured my heart out in that letter, and I’m probably going to fall more in love with her when I see her on stage.”

There is a pause before Ned repeats, “Fall more in love?”

Peter gulps, and his palms are starting to sweat like they did when he first met Michelle. Love is a strong word, and it’s a word that he uses profusely. He loves his job, he loves his fans, he loves the bagels in New Jersey and the way Michelle’s smile makes him feel. However, to _fall in love,_ Peter has no experience, so he cannot blame Ned for questioning his choice of words. 

“I don’t know if I’m _actually_ falling,” he shrugs, “I just know that I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Ned nods. He understands. His best friend always understands him, and for that, Peter also knows that he loves Ned.

They flip through the playbill, Peter’s fingers gravitating to trace her name when it appears. Angelica Schuyler. Michelle Jones. 

“This is her number,” he tells Ned and points to a title under Act I, “Satisfied. It’s Aunt May’s favorite.”

“What’s it about?” Ned asks.

Peter blanks, “Uh… I have no idea.”

Ned gives him a look, “You think you’re in love with this girl, but you don’t even know what her musical number is about?”

“That’s different,” he disagrees, “Michelle and Angelica Schuyler are not the same person.”

“True, but this is Michelle’s job _and_ something that is obviously important to her. You should at least know what her big number is about.”

Peter purses his lips. Ned has a point, so he pulls out his phone to search the song. The lyrics stun him, and he whistles lowly. 

“What is it?” 

“Angelica is in love with Alexander Hamilton,” Peter starts.

Ned nods, “Okay. That’s cute,” but Peter shakes his head.

“But Hamilton is marrying Angelica’s sister.”

“Oh,” Ned replies, “So, not cute?”

“Not cute,” Peter echos.

Although, he knows that Michelle is separate from the character she plays, the thought of being in love with someone you cannot have scares Peter even more. What if he spent the entire summer falling in love with a girl he would never end up with? Could he handle the rejection? Would she break his heart? 

As the time nears eight o’clock, he twists a strand of his hair to distract him from his racing thoughts as he asks himself, _Is Michelle Jones capable of hurting him?_

He gets a blaring answer to his question when she reappears on stage in the middle of the first act, reeling him to the edge of his seat, stealing everyone’s breath away, yearning and longing for Alexander Hamilton. Peter could go on forever about the conveyance of emotion in her eyes, but her voice leaves him helpless and speechless. Maybe he is somewhat biased, but not even the star, Brad Davis, could steal the show. Not when Michelle Jones graces the very same stage. 

She can do more than just hurt him with the way she outshines the rest of the cast. Michelle burns like hydrogen and helium in her core. He has known since the moment he laid eyes on her. 

After the show, he meets her in the dressing home, heart beating out of his chest, rehearsing what he wants to say to her in his head. She sits at the mirror with her back to him, the red roses lying in her lap. Michelle hears him enter the room and turns in her chair. His open letter is in her hand. At the sight of the paper saturated with confessions and raw feelings, he pauses in the doorway. His heart is in that letter, which means his heart is quite literally in her possession. 

The truth will set him free, but first it might make him run for the hills. For a moment, she stares at him in silence. A voice inside his head tells him to abort mission. He got serious way too quickly, a fool wasting money and jet fuel to be with her every week, yet Michelle never came to visit him. Of course, the feelings would be unrequited. 

However, a smile slowly grows on her face until she glows like the star he always knew she was. 

“Care to explain?” Michelle sets his letter down.

Peter steps further into the room and shuts the door.

“I think I did enough explaining in that letter,” he awkwardly gestures to the fancy stationery he had bought from the dollar store.

She bites her lip, “No, I mean, would you like to elaborate? Flesh out some things?” but he continues to look at her in confusion, “Include any other details?”

Internally, he’s freaking out, because _why isn’t she saying something?_ But he pretends to ponder her question before shaking his head.

“No thanks. I’m good.”

Peter deduces that he gave the wrong answer when she rolls her eyes and sighs. Michelle stares at him again with a puzzled expression, almost like she is trying to figure him out. Never feeling more exposed than under her stare, especially now after she has read his most vulnerable thoughts, he breaks eye contact and looks anywhere but at her. 

From the corner of his eye, he notices that she stands up to approach him. In a flash, her hands rise to touch his cheeks as her face leans down towards his. Although her lips are soft and sweet and all too familiar, they feel like a fresh start, a first kiss and a new beginning. 

“Listen, I like you,” Michelle pulls away, and there’s a gleam in her eye, a shining tear threatening to slip, “Are we doing this or what?”

That evening, Peter finally introduces her to Aunt May, and the whole experience is painfully embarrassing for him when Michelle is granted exclusive access to photo albums and is drilled with an abundance of questions about life as a Broadway actress. But what is even more embarrassing is the moment when his aunt holds up her phone and snaps a picture with Peter’s new girlfriend. She immediately posts it on Facebook.

“Did she just post my picture with her?” Michelle pulls Peter aside before they leave.

He laughs, “Yeah, but her page is private. She doesn’t even include her full name. She’s scared the government is tracking her or something.”

Michelle smiles at this, “Nice. I respect that.”

Then at night, they hold each other close. Bright smiles paint their faces in the darkness, while they stay up talking until the sun begins to rise. He’s got a flight in the afternoon and a photoshoot bright and early Sunday morning, but who is he to sleep? What is he to dream about when Peter can finally call her _his?_

She reaches over to grab his letter from her bedside table. 

“Read it to me,” Michelle rests her chin on his bare chest and gazes up at him, “I want to hear it in your voice.”

He obnoxiously clears her throat, evoking one of her charming laughs, before he begins. Peter’s heart races, but it has long since stopped aching. 

As he reads his letter aloud, loving how her name rolls off his tongue like honey, Michelle would occasionally press her lips against his skin. He takes note of this, and decides he should write her letters more often.

Nearing the end of the last paragraph, Michelle stills above him and blurts out, “I have another secret to share with you.” 

“What is it?” he questions.

She cups her hands over his ear and leans down to whisper, “This is my favorite part.”

He scrunches his face in disbelief, “Really? _This_ part is your favorite?”

Michelle hums with a nod of her head.

Peter resumes reading, and she grabs his hand above his head and laces their fingers together.

“I’m sorry that I’m hurting the climate by flying to see you every chance I get, but I promise I’m not flying on a private jet. Therefore, I don’t have that big of a contribution to climate change. I really hope you give me some credit here,” he pauses to listen as a laugh overtakes her, “But honestly, the environment be damned, because I really love seeing you. Sometimes I wish we didn’t work on opposite sides of America, so I could see you more often. And, I guess, you know, so I don’t hurt the climate that much.

“I really like you.” Peter takes a deep breath and looks at her. She’s already looking at him when he finishes, “Love, Peter.”

She nuzzles his neck in an attempt to hide her blushing face and uncontrollable smile.

“I really like you too.”

Hours later, after she leaves to Manhattan for another show, Peter hails a taxi outside of her apartment.

“JFK, please,” he tells the driver.

They pull away from the curb. Peter departs with the promise of a budding relationship and another one of Michelle’s black dahlia drawings on his hand. He loses himself in his head, reminiscing about the summer, replaying the past few hours and coming to the realization that he finally got the girl. For real this time. 

Peter is too busy thinking about the next time he can visit that he fails to notice the paparazzi camped out across the street. They can’t believe their luck as they easily collect photographs of the young movie star, sporting messy hair and a jacket that isn’t his, exiting an apartment that isn’t his aunt’s. 

He will notice when he lands in LAX, and the photos have already circulated the Internet. 

But by then, it’s too late. The media is all over it. 

Everyone is dying to know who he spent the night with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing aunt may!! and also a little tease for the tattoos! and for liz and brad. they'll get their introductions in the next couple of chapters. 
> 
> the song for this chapter is "tell em" by sabrina carpenter. a masterpiece, really. 
> 
> for future reference, each chapter will be loosely or heavily inspired by a song. it could be a song in its entirety or a just a single line. it really depends.
> 
> last note: did anyone catch any references to anything? there's a few!
> 
> **DISCLAIMER - PLEASE READ!**  
to some of you, i think it's pretty obvious what one of the biggest inspirations is for this fic. however, i will never explicitly mention or address it. also, i want to clarify that i have no opinions or beliefs on the matter. people's relationships, especially private ones, are nobody's business, and i hope that fact shines through in this fic!


	3. Elizabeth Allan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please give it up for Peter Parker’s leading lady, Elizabeth Allan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy november!
> 
> i'm stopping by just to drop chapter 3 on you all.
> 
> and then, i'm dipping until the semester's over lol.
> 
> also, just a warning, **this chapter touches on sexuality and closeting.**
> 
> and i may have thrown in a couple of characters here that aren't in the character tags. they don't really play big roles in the overall story, but who knows? that might change in the future.
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy!

#### “For your eyes only.”

######  _—If I Could Fly,_ One Direction

He screwed up.

But it’s not that bad, and he can fix this.

The photographer peeks out from behind her camera. “Peter, you look great, but could you give me a little less constipation and a little more smoulder?”

On second thought, maybe he can’t. 

Gratitude is perhaps the defining emotion for all that has happened in his career, but sometimes, Peter can’t help but feel the complete opposite. His profession covers more than merely falling into character for a fancy paycheck, so he is aware of how wrong and so very selfish it is to wish that certain parts of the job did not exist. Unfortunately, one thing that comes with starring in the biggest movie of the year is the absolute hunger to prolong its success, which means the promotional team are working overtime to ensure Peter Parker and Liz Allan are in the media as much as possible. They book appearances, interviews and talk shows, every event that requires being themselves (or as much as themselves as they are allowed and trained to reveal). 

However, the tabloids, Eugene Thompson teaches him, are the one media to avoid at all costs. Tabloids don’t go through checkpoints and good old publicists like himself, he had said. They are uncontrolled and facilitate scandal, twist stories that can wrap around and choke celebrities until they suffocate. One picture is worth a thousand words, a saying that the paparazzi and journalists live by. Eugene had quizzed him, asking if they ever use pictures to tell the right ones.

They do not, is the correct answer. 

So it is with a heavy heart that Peter Parker realizes he has already failed on day one of entering a new relationship. 

The lights shine heavily in the center of the room with a red curtain backdrop behind him and Liz. The suede jacket he wears is thick and hot, but the fan blowing in their hair catches her flowing dress for a picture perfect moment. The photographer is somewhat pleased, especially at the grace and beauty of all that is Elizabeth Allan, although the face Peter pulls is one for complaints. 

Peter knows he looks stiff and uncomfortable. He has not been able to relax since he saw photos of himself leaving Michelle’s apartment. It doesn’t help that he is unable to talk about it with her, because of her back-to-back shows and this distressing photoshoot where he has to wear a fedora. His poker face is failing him, and there is nothing he can do about it. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Liz leans over to ask him, 

For the past year Peter has known her, Liz is nothing but kind, and as far as co-stars and on-screen love interests go, she is pretty spectacular; it’s fun improvising scene after scene, bouncing lines off of each other like clockwork, moving the storyline with ease. Along with good times, she was there for the bad, having witnessed him during late night and early morning shoots, grumpy before his cup of coffee and running on four hours of sleep. Yet despite it all, she remains sweet and understanding. 

Therefore, Peter supposes that since she has seen him at his lowest points when he would cry and vomit from the stress and labor of playing Spider-Man, he can open up and trust her with a glimpse of the stress and labor of his personal life. 

“Not really,” he answers and tries to force a smoulder for the camera, but stops when the photographer protests, “I was out this weekend, and someone took a few pictures of me.”

On cue, the flash goes off. He squints, a bit disoriented. The photographer grunts at the outcome and shifts her camera to a different angle. 

The flash goes off again.

“You should be used to it,” Liz replies, tilting her chin to expose her neck for the shot, “The camera loves you. You’re a natural!”

Peter hears another request to loosen up and refrain from playing with the annoying hat on his head, and he realizes she could not have been more wrong. Liz is a fantastic liar. It is what makes her a wonderful actress. 

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He rolls his eyes. 

She glances at him and smiles, and automatically, he returns the gesture. The feeling of gratitude appears once again. At the very least, this rapid rise to fame and whirlwind journey of navigating the movie industry are not lonely, because he’s got his leading lady by his side. Liz is someone who understands more than anyone. 

“Cheer up, Peter.” She knocks her shoulder with his. “I’m sure you looked great in those pictures.”

An optimist at best, yet never a pessimist at worst, Liz flips her hair and faces the camera. Peter thinks of his tousled hair and dark shades from the tabloid pictures and concludes that _okay,_ he does look great in those photos, but that does not mean he has to like them. 

“It’s not that,” he says. _It’s never that,_ he almost adds, but, “They were taken without my knowledge and consent, and I don’t know, it’s really bothering me. Big time.”

Liz slowly nods without breaking her poker face, and maybe Peter should learn a thing or two, because the photographer is complaining for the umpteenth time. Plus, the fedora isn’t exactly helping him loosen up when all it does is make him feel self conscious. Liz’s dress, on the other hand, is much more flattering. The stylist should have stuck him in a dress too.

A light turns a shade of red when Liz rests a hand on his shoulder.

“If it’s really bothering you, then maybe you can release a statement? About privacy and all that?” 

Peter shakes his head. Releasing a statement would only draw more attention. “I don’t think it works like that.”

The light changes to green, and she removes her hand from him.

“Then, how does it work?”

Truth be told, Peter wishes he knew the answer, but all he had was an Instagram profile and a crash course on Media Training 101 taught by Eugene. The movie making is the easy part. Getting into character and becoming someone else is like a safe space for him, but once he steps off of the set, his guard goes up. 

Someone switches the light to a warm gold while the photographer yells, “Okay, I want to see some movement! Give me movement!” so Peter does not get the chance to confide in Liz until after the photoshoot. 

Their photoshoot had been rocky, but it went as smoothly as it could considering one of them is highly photogenic while the other lets a small factor like a fedora hinder his modeling abilities. Not like he has any of those abilities anyway, but regardless, Peter scolds himself. He needs to get a grip. Lack of privacy is part of the job, so whatever is going on in his personal life should not affect something as simple as his and Liz’s magazine spread.

Afterwards, they are not alone at first, so Peter is careful with his choice of words as he recounts the happenings of his visit to New York. 

“So, I was in Queens, right?” 

“Uh huh.”

Peter drapes his body across the sofa in the dressing room as the makeup artist starts to clean Liz’s face. He settles into an oddly comfortable position with half of his arm dangling off the seat and his head facing the ceiling.

“And I’m only there for like a day, you know?” 

“Hmmm.”

There are a total of six lights hanging from the ceiling, he notes and occupies himself by connecting the dots.

“I’m not even there for a big event or anything. I’m just doing my own business up in Queens.”

“Right.”

“I’m just chilling.” He can make three squares and three rectangles with the lights on the ceiling. “I was relaxing. Nothing fancy. Definitely nothing interesting.”

“Nice.”

Peter scoots over to look at her from his upside down position, and the blood rushes to his head. A pounding headache is just around the corner. It is so unlike Spider-Man, someone who he wishes he could be sometimes: a masked superhero, fighting crime, swinging freely throughout the city. 

However, with the way Liz is paying attention to him, it would not have made a difference if Peter wore a mask over his face while he walks across the ceiling. Her eyes are closed as a cotton pad is dragged across her cheek. She is not noticing a thing.

“I mean, if you must know, I was there for a waxing appointment.” He pauses and waits for a response but does not receive one. “I was getting my ass waxed.”

The makeup artist finishes and starts reorganizing their things yet Liz stays put in her seat, eyes still shut. He thinks she might have fallen asleep on him until she mutters.

“Cool.”

Peter sighs, “You’re not listening to me.”

At this, her eyes fly open to look down at how his hair nearly touches the floor.

“Of course, I am.” She shrugs. “You said you were getting your ass waxed.”

Liz repeats it so nonchalantly, he cringes. “Oh.”

In the next second, she is on her feet and thanking the makeup artist before she leads them out. Once they are alone, Peter’s stomach drops, but he’s upside down, so it feels like it crashes inside his chest. 

They are finished for the day. However, Liz must have guessed that what Peter wants to share should not leave this room. 

“Scoot,” she orders, and he shimmies into an upright position to properly sit on the sofa. She plops down next to him and turns with a straight face. “Cut to the chase already. You weren’t _actually_ getting your ass waxed, were you?”

He hurriedly shakes his head, somewhat embarrassed that he was wrong, and Liz _had_ been paying attention to him. “Of course not! Why would I do such a thing?”

She smiles. “Figures. You’re too much of a baby,” and he crosses his arms. “Hey!”

“Seriously, though.” Liz sits on one of her legs so that her body faces his and gives him a concerned look. “You were off your game today. What happened in Queens that it’s so bad you got your picture taken?”

His mind takes him back to Michelle’s apartment. If he thinks hard enough, at his fingertips, Peter can feel the sheets of her unmade bed and pinpoint the exact location of her shelf of books that rest not too far from the leftmost pillow. Ingrained in his memory are her contagious laugh, when he read aloud his letter she had stored in her nightstand for easy access and the tip of her pen gliding over his skin, marking him with her favorite flower over and over again. 

What happened in Queens is not bad; it is far from it. What is bad is that with all of the fame and the glory, the growing fandom and the big jump from C-list to A-list status, Peter wanted so badly for this one thing to be his and his alone. 

“They got me leaving an apartment with messy hair and a duffle bag.”

Liz furrows her brows. “I don’t get it. Aren’t you from Queens? That could have just been your apartment.”

“I haven’t lived in Queens for years,” Peter replies.

They stay silent for a moment, both weighing the pros and cons of pictures of Hollywood’s most-talked-about, rising movie star, on a regular Saturday morning, exiting an apartment building not under his name, with ridiculously obvious bed hair. It’s not exactly scandalous. Peter Parker is human, and humans have sex with other humans—it’s just _nature._ But a human in his line of work has an image to uphold and a personal life to protect. Those types of pictures do neither. 

Liz asks, “Does Flash know?” and Peter looks at her in confusion.

“Who is Flash?”

She blankly stares at him for a few seconds.

“Um,” she starts, like she is almost expecting this to be a trick question, “Our publicist?”

Peter shakes his head and dismisses her, “I don’t know about you, but _my_ publicist is Eugene Thompson.”

“That is literally who Flash is,” Liz counters, “Also, we have the same publicist. They gave us identical contracts.”

“Wait.” He raises his hand to halt their discussion. “Why do you call him Flash?”

She squints her eyes at him. “He asked me to call him that,” and Peter frowns. “He never asked _me_ that.”

Liz merely shrugs. “Maybe he just likes me more than you.”

If he did not know any better, that would have bruised his ego, but he and Eugene never really got along anyway. 

“Well, I don’t know if he knows, but I never told him anything.” He suddenly feels defensive, as if he should prove himself. “He and I only really share things on a need to know basis.”

“Well, this might be need to know,” she concludes and holds her hand out, palm up, “Let’s see those pictures.”

Peter pulls out his phone and opens an online article from the _Daily Bugle_, which he is ashamed to admit that he reread nearly twenty times. She brings the phone closer to her face. 

“Peter Parker spends the night with mystery woman,” she reads aloud, before scrolling to view the pictures. 

There he is, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but he’s so blatantly happy with a smirk on painted his face. Following not too far behind, a woman exits the same building, but her face is completely hidden and turned to the ground. It’s not Michelle. It’s a woman he does not know, most likely an innocent citizen who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. However, having this woman in the background of a smug Peter Parker makes for a stellar picture. It looks like his publicist will need to know, after all.

“_Is_ there a mystery woman?” Liz asks quietly as she zooms in on the door of the building.

“Yeah,” Peter answers, “But she’s not in that picture.”

She shoots him a glance. “And this is her apartment?”

He nods, hesitantly.

Liz examines the picture once again with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. He anxiously waits for her opinion, because he needs the reassurance that this is not as bad as it looks, and he’s overreacting for no reason. He wants her to say with certainty that there is nothing to worry about. His image and personal life will be alright.

However, her opinion never comes. 

All she has are questions.

“So you’re seeing someone?” Liz looks at him with scrutiny, like she’s daring him to lie straight to her face.

Peter stutters, not sure how much of the truth he should reveal, “Um, well, yeah, I guess so. Yes! Yes, I am seeing someone.”

She prompts him for more, “Is it serious?”

He’s never been more serious about anyone before, but that would venture into a deep talk that he reserves for his best friend or Michelle. Liz is neither of those people, so he vaguely answers, “Sure.”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t press further. Peter continues, “What do you think? Is it bad?”

She grows quiet for a minute while she stares at the picture for a while longer, and Peter wishes she was not such a damn good actress as he struggles to read her facial expression. Her poker face starts to worry him, the downfall of her expertise of keeping emotions at bay. He almost cannot believe it. Red carpets and public events make his stomach churn and his palms sweat, but he has yet to see Liz express even a lick of anxiety. 

“Something like this will die down after a day,” she deduces, “It’s impossible to even get a good look at that woman’s face.”

He meets Liz’s eyes, and the difference between her and Michelle is striking. Her eyes are emotionless, void of any clues to what she thinks of the situation. Or maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe his tabloid pictures are trivial in the grand scheme of things, and Liz recognizes that before he does. 

“Should I tell Eugene?” he wonders.

She hands his phone back to him. 

“He’s our publicist. He probably already knows.” Liz rises to her feet. “But if you’re serious about this mystery woman, maybe you should discuss this with him so he can help you avoid another situation.”

Peter’s phone dings with a message from Michelle, and Liz’s eyes fly to the source of the sound. He dismisses the notification before she can catch a glimpse. He does not trust Liz _that_ much.

She goes to grab her purse from the vanity, but a gray jacket slung over the back of a chair catches her attention. 

“Is this the jacket you were wearing?”

His first instinct is to deny, but she saw the pictures and already knows the answer.“Yeah. The one and only.”

He watches as Liz plays with the buttons, deep in thought. 

“It’s nice,” she responds, “Where did you get it?”

This catches Peter off guard.

“Oh, I’m just borrowing it from someone.” He silently revisits how he sneakily stole Michelle’s jacket off of the floor after they stripped each other bare and made love on her desk. He will return it to her, eventually. Therefore, he is technically not lying.

Liz caresses the pockets before suddenly retracting her hand. For a split second, her poker face breaks, eyes wide with her voice caught in her throat. Peter realizes he does not know his leading lady as well as he thought. 

“You’ll be okay, Peter,” she tells him and then leaves without another glance. Somehow, her words fail to convince him. 

* * *

He is thirty-five pages deep in a new script and munching on pad thai in his kitchen when Michelle calls him that night. 

“Guess who I saw today?” is the first thing she asks as her face appears.

Peter pushes his script to the side. “Who did you see?”

Despite the food in his mouth when he speaks, Michelle gives him a bright smile that has yet to fail in making his stomach perform somersaults.

“I said guess,” she sing-songs.

One of his neighbors’ dogs start barking. It shouldn’t startle him, but Peter flinches. Today has been a combination of guessing how Liz seems to have already mastered the art of being a celebrity and guessing the outcome of the big hypothetical situation Eugene had thrown at him: 

_What happens when your fans find out you have a girlfriend?_

Peter had answered, unsure, _They’re happy for me?_

A disappointed sigh from Eugene. 

_It’s so refreshing how clueless you are. Try again._

His energy for guessing games wasted after a stern meeting with the publicist and another crash course, An Introduction to Knowing Your Audience. However, his girlfriend is excited, so entertaining her guessing game will be no problem. 

“You at least have to give me a hint, Michelle.”

She pulls a sour face. “Ugh. Michelle. So formal.”

_They’re going to learn her name. They’re going to find out what she looks like, and what will the fans think?_

Peter studies the baby curls sticking up at her hairline and the little tooth that slightly pokes out when she smiles. There is softness in her eyes and boldness in her lips. She has a face that belongs in galleries and movie screens and his early mornings over coffee, because he thinks he wouldn’t mind if her face is the first thing he wakes up to. So for someone to look at Michelle with anything other than admiration and awe and overwhelming warmth is lost upon him. It’s just absurd. 

“How should I call you, then?” he asks, “Chelle? Elle? Miche?”

She gags at each nickname he lists, yet he allows a smile to overtake him at her reaction. No one has ever been cuter. 

“Call me MJ, please,” she declares in a mock-announcer’s voice.

Peter’s hand itches to hold hers. “Okay, MJ. You at least need to give me a hint.”

_Once they know who she is, what will the fans do?_

MJ tilts her phone away to hide as she giggles into her hand, and her red sweatshirt with the black Spider-Man logo briefly comes into view. The urge to draw the spider on her skin in the same way she drew the black dahlia on his hits him. An inked spider would look irresistible on that soft skin, and he files that urge away to revisit another time. 

“Michelle Jones, can I get a picture with you?” she imitates excitement. 

“I see,” he nods in understanding; the irony of his girlfriend getting her picture taken is not lost upon him, “You met a fan.”

She answers with a slight shake of her head, “Not just any old fan,” and tugs the fabric of her sweatshirt how one would pop a collar. “The girl was wearing Spidey merch.”

_They will attack her. And it will be all your fault._

Is it possible for his publicist to be wrong?

“A fan of yours is a fan of mine. They have great taste,” he gloats.

The glint in her eyes shines through the phone. “The _best._”

MJ had run into one of the good ones. If the world finds out, next time she might not be as lucky. 

“I sent you something earlier,” Peter reminds her, “Did you get to read it?”

“Oh, right! Sorry, I was busy.”

Her face disappears from his screen. 

“Can I tell you about my day?” she continues as Peter imagines her opening up their messages. 

“Of course.” He would much rather hear about her day than recount his. “How were your shows?”

Peter counts the seconds it would take for her to scroll and click on the link.

“Amazing, as always.” She sighs like the dramatic theatre girl she is. “You think I would be used to receiving standing ovations by now, but every time, they still knock me off my feet. But anyway, some of us went out to get dinner at that Mediterranean restaurant I was telling you about, and _damn,_ Peter, the food was so good. You have to try it with me when you come back.”

He drums his fingers along the edge of his table, anxiously waiting for MJ to open up the article. 

“That’s where the fan came up to me and asked for my picture! And then, I saw her Spider-Man shirt, and I literally _geeked out._ You should’ve seen the two of us. We looked like two nerds who…”

MJ trails off, letting him know that she finally laid eyes on the thing Peter could not look away from no matter how hard he had tried. His fixation on the headline and his blissful oblivion to the paparazzi is borderline obsessive, but he had always known what he was signing up for. The stay-at-home dinner dates and entanglements in between the sheets belong to the two of them. What happens in the haven of the shadows, free of prying eyes, is theirs. However, once the curtain rises, the spotlight blinds them and the whole world stops and stares, what is theirs can no longer be. Eugene considers Peter and MJ lucky for going the entire summer without getting spotted.

_They will go easy on you, but she will get the worst of it,_ were Eugene’s final words of advice, _You know how it is._

“Wow, not even twenty-four hours into our relationship, and you were already hooking up with my neighbor.”

He involuntary snorts at her light-hearted response to a situation that weighs so heavily in his mind. Her humor is his weakness, Peter realizes. Without even trying, MJ broke through and summoned a second of laughter from him when all he had was a headache and a scowl. 

“You know I love your sarcasm, but can we actually talk about this for a minute?”

She returns to the video call, her faint smirk never wavering. 

“What’s there to talk about? I already win this round, because I know who the mystery woman is. That’s Felicia from two floors down.”

He sighs with a soft smile, “MJ, c’mon,” as his girlfriend raises her eyebrows, thoroughly enjoying the situation by making fun of it.

“Felicia is a married woman, Peter,” she scolds and flies a hand to her chest, “I thought you had better morals.”

Mocking the headline and pictures undoubtedly cheers him up, even if it was only slightly. It serves as a reminder of how ridiculous this all is, how not all news is real news and never to believe everything you read on the Internet. But even though he and MJ know the truth, they never discussed if anyone else should know too. 

“Seriously, though,” Peter begins, jabbing the fork in his food as he says what he has been mentally rehearsing for the entire day, “I think it would be best, for the two of us, to keep our relationship a secret. From the public, that is.”

His words are met with silence. He watches achingly at the smirk that slowly slips from his girlfriend’s face; the gears shifting and turning in her mind almost visible as she blankly stares at him through the screen. 

What he would give to be having this conversation in person. 

He watches her for a few beats before breaking the silence, “MJ?”

She blinks like she had been abruptly woken up.

“Sorry. Yeah?”

Peter pushes his dinner towards his already abandoned script.

“Say something, please.”

It takes her a few seconds before she breathes out, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeats, doubtfully. 

“Yeah, it’s whatever.” MJ shrugs and busies herself with something off-camera.

He shakes his head, not liking where this is going.

“No, it’s not whatever. I want to know what you think.”

However, she merely insists, “I think whatever you think.”

MJ pulls the hood of the sweatshirt over her hair and curls her arms around her chest. It’s as if his girlfriend is figuratively and literally closing herself off to him, and Peter will not have any of that.

“You are your own person,” he articulates, “You shouldn’t think whatever I think.”

At his deliberate tone, she finally looks at him. “Don’t take me literally, Peter. I just mean, okay.”

“You said that already,” he points out, and she sighs. 

“So what do you want me to say? If not _yes,_ then you want me to say _no?_”

He resists the urge to make a face, because it should be so obvious that there are more than just one-worded answers. Explanations, the need for communication, expressing each other’s feelings—they should do it all. 

“I want your opinion. Because I already got two people’s opinions, but ultimately yours is the only one that matters.”

MJ fiddles with the drawstrings at her collar. “Whose opinions? Ned’s? Aunt May’s? What did they say?”

Things like this are beyond Ned’s expertise, and Aunt May wouldn’t know what the big deal is; therefore Peter rubs the tiredness from his eyes as he reveals the pair he confided in. 

“Neither of them, actually.”

“Neither of them?” She squints her eyes. The mild strain in her voice frightens him. “You want to keep _me_ a secret, yet you already told two other people?”

“MJ, don’t say it like that,” he hurries to reassure her. Her eyes are saying she’s upset, but her mouth fails to tell him anything. “I want our _relationship_ to be a secret, but not you. Never you.”

“Sorry.” She sits back and rubs circles onto her temples, “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just—Nevermind. Whose opinions did you get?”

“My publicist.” Whatever she was about to say, Peter does not pry further. “And Liz.”

At the mention of his co-star’s name, MJ straightens in her seat.

“Liz?”

“Yeah, Elizabeth Allan,” he explains, “She’s in the Spider-Man movie with me. I had a photoshoot with her today.”

MJ tightens her arms around herself before flying to her feet. Before he knows it, she’s out of his view, chewing on her nails and and practically wearing a hole into the floor as she paces the room.

“What did she say?” he hears her ask.

Peter’s eyes fly to the gray jacket he had hung by his front door; its small buttons and soft pockets that Liz had found to be… _nice,_ before she swore to him that everything would be okay. 

“She said all the talk about the pictures will die down quickly, so I shouldn’t worry.” He decides not to mention Liz’s interest in her jacket. “But my publicist said something else.”

“Your publicist said you should worry?”

“Well,” he considers this for a beat, “It was implied.”

There’s a pause before she returns to her phone and sits, arms still crossed and guarded.

“How was it implied?”

Peter ponders for a bit, rearranging the words in his mind as he tries to discover the best way to paraphrase Eugene’s advice.

He begins with a question. “Do you think the fan you met would have treated you any differently if they knew you were my girlfriend?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Why?”

He takes a deep breath. “He basically said that if my fans find out that I have a girlfriend, it’s going to get ugly.”

MJ snorts. 

“So?” She pulls the hood further down towards her face. “A handsome guy like you will have no problem handling ugly.”

Peter fights a blush at her twisted compliment. Seconds later, he gives her a sad smile.

“He means, it’s going to get ugly for _you._”

The words must have hit her like a gush of New York wind in the middle of January, and because of that, MJ finally gets it. She sighs, because it all makes sense. The sweatshirts that she steals, the kisses that he gives; there are many people in the world who would be jealous of the part that she plays in Peter Parker’s life. And among the many people are those who wouldn’t hesitate to try and make her life feel like the dead of winter; they wouldn’t care if she freezes to death as long as a girlfriend is out of the picture. 

“They’re not all bad. I know that there are many of them who would absolutely love that I’m happy with someone and would be so supportive,” Peter believes this with his entire being, “But they’re not all good either. And I don’t want you on the receiving of that.”

“I’m a big girl,” MJ counters half-heartedly, “I’m sure I can handle it.”

Her feet rise to her seat, and her knees are hugged against her chest as she curls into herself. Peter wants to believe her.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” he whispers instead, striking and weakening the barrier she put around herself. 

She brushes the hood of the sweatshirt off from her head, the gears in her head shifting and turning with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. By now, Peter’s dinner has gone cold, and the lines of his script are forgotten. On her end, MJ’s eyelids weigh with the urgency to sleep and the promise of tomorrow’s day off. Wanting nothing more than to retreat into her bedroom and let the sheets hide her from the world, she realizes it means nothing if she hides alone. 

“I’m sorry I got defensive,” she confesses, releasing her crossed arms as she tries to open up to him, “I agree. Let’s keep this a secret.”

“Hey,” he says, leaning closer to the screen, “Don’t apologize. If it bothers you, then it bothers you. We should talk more about this. We don’t have to decide right away.”

MJ relaxes, his consideration comforting her; she is not hiding alone.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve decided,” she claims, “I just got a little worked up, because I’ve had a bad experience with a secret relationship. That’s all.”

She forces a smile, yet Peter frowns. “Shit, MJ. What happened?”

He can see she is deep in thought as she picks pieces of lint from her sleeve.

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” she shares, “It’s something I need to tell you in person.”

A message from Ned pops up at the top of his screen, reminding him of the busy week he has ahead of him: filming for an Avengers movie begins in the morning, his and Liz’s big print interview on Wednesday, and an appearance at the Osborn film festival on Friday. Then, dinner at the director’s house on Saturday. 

“I’m not sure how soon I can visit,” he admits, “I start shooting tomorrow.”

Peter thinks he’s doing a pretty good job at getting to know her; from a Harry Potter obsession, a government conspiracy theories fascination, and a fading inner lip tattoo of words she seems to regret. But soon, he will learn that his girlfriend is full of endless surprises. He has barely scratched the surface of all that is Michelle Jones. 

His eyes widen in quiet amazement as MJ offers for the first time since they’ve known each other, “Why don’t I come to you?” 

* * *

Four days.

She says she can visit in four days.

So even though his schedule is jam-packed with more pressing matters, Peter nearly breaks a toe rearranging furniture and scrubbing his floors spotless. 

“I can just hire someone for you.” 

Ned watches as his best friend gets on his hands and knees next to a bucket of soapy water and a rag.

“No way,” Peter insists, “It has to be perfect, and I can make it perfect.”

Ned cringes at the sight of soap dripping down his arms after Peter plunged the tattered cloth inside.

“Well, good luck,” he wishes him before backing away, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Peter gets to clock in only an hour and a half of cleaning over the next two nights, after tiring shoots of superheroes getting their asses kicked. However, he manages to get his living room decluttered, the sheets on his bed are now washed, and the smudges on the mirrors disappear like they never existed. It will have to be enough. 

On Wednesday during lunch break, he slips away from the cast and crew and hides in his trailer. As he collapses onto a seat, he makes a promise to himself to rest his eyes for no more than ten minutes. Yet lately, nothing seems to be going his way, because thirty minutes later, he is rudely awakened by Ned pounding on the door, announcing the arrival of both Elizabeths for the most anticipated print interview of their first Spider-Man movie. Peter groans and rolls over to plant his feet on the floor, noticing that he is still in his suit when he sees the rubbery spandex. 

“Just a minute!” he calls out, almost falling flat on his face as he strips. 

Before inviting Ned, Liz and the journalist inside, Peter hastily combs through his disheveled hair and without a second thought, pulls Michelle’s gray jacket over his shirt.

The significance of the item of clothing does not register in his mind until the journalist locks her blue eyes on it; the very jacket he was wearing in the images that were plastered in New York City’s featured tabloid. Her eyes gleam with the signature wonder and awe of a reporter who is on the verge of a hit story, and a money hungry smile greets him when she introduces herself. 

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Peter Parker.” She moves to shake his hand. “My name is Betty Brant, and I am very excited to speak with you and Elizabeth Allan.”

Betty glances at the jacket once more, rugged and informal compared to her Peter Pan collars, before sitting down at his table. For a moment, he considers ditching the jacket. However, it would be too suspicious. Peter catches Liz’s eye, and she tilts her head ever so slightly, silently asking him, _Are you okay?_

He nods so she does not worry.

The pair situate themselves across from Betty as she pulls out a digital voice recorder, a pen, and a notepad. “I’ve already spoken to your publicist, Eugene Thompson, and have been made aware of the restrictions and topics to avoid in this interview. But before we get started, is there any other conditions you would like to add?”

From the corner of the trailer, Ned takes the opportunity to loudly cough and clear his throat, and Peter shoots him a pointed look to cut it out. Fortunately, Liz takes the lead.

“What topics did he tell you to avoid?”

At this, Betty smiles, a little too innocently, in Peter’s opinion. 

“I cannot ask you about relationships or dating, no comparisons between Spider-Man and Iron Man, and of course,” she lowers her voice and provides a sympathetic stare to Peter, “Absolutely no talks about family.”

Proper etiquette flies out the window as he crosses his arms and slumps his shoulder. Liz offers him a comforting smile, and it’s a message he knows; one he’s grown accustomed to. _I got your back, Peter,_ she had told him before their very first red carpet during the press tour, _Just give me the cue to flip my hair and flash my brightest smile, and then, all the attention will be off of you._

He answers with a tight grin, understanding that her offer is still on the table; it always will be. 

Staying true to her word, Betty never veers off track despite the countless questions. They discuss the skyrocketing success of Spider-Man and the addicting chemistry between Peter and Liz. Betty leans into feeding their egos, prompting the two to go off on tangents about stories on set and their multiple screen tests from two years ago. And as the interview begins to draw to a close, Peter feels himself unwinding and growing more comfortable in the conversation. 

“Okay, there is one more thing I just _have_ to talk about,” Betty gushes, “Not only are you both such talented actors, but the two of you have made quite the fashion statements over the past few months.”

Liz beams at the compliment.

“Peter, what you wore to this year’s Met Gala earned you a spot on some of the best dressed lists. Which is definitely saying something since this was your first Gala. And I know you, Elizabeth, your outfit for the Spider-Man premiere had everybody talking. You were trending number one _worldwide._” Betty feigns a swoon. “I understand you will be attending New York Fashion Week?”

Liz answers, “I will be there, but unfortunately, Peter is stuck here on set,” yet Betty continues like she never said a word.

“As a matter of fact, I am intrigued by the outfits you have today!” she exclaims with a wild smile, “Please, tell me, who are you wearing?”

Apparently, Peter and Liz are not the only actors present in the room, because judging from the Nike basketball shorts around his waist and the plain ripped jeans around Liz’s, Betty Brant also knows how to put on a front.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re joking, right?” A forced laugh escapes from Liz’s lips, but for Peter, the air escapes his lungs. He crosses his arms again in a pathetic attempt to hide himself and the one thing he stupidly decided to steal from his girlfriend.

Betty ignores Liz a second time, yet her ignorance seems unintentional as she finally places her attention on the area that could strike gold if she digs strategically enough.

“That jacket really suits you, Peter.” Betty points at his chest, another innocent smile in place.

Liz whips her head to face him, and Peter knows that with just one nod of his head, she would save him from answering whatever question is hurled at him. He’s got a lifeline. He can use it. He just might latch on. Except, Peter narrows his eyes in Liz’s direction. He’s not sure how Liz knew that he would need it. 

“Thanks,” he answers Betty dismissively, but she doesn’t get the hint. Or maybe she does and chooses to ignore it.

“It’s a nice neutral color and appears to be a very versatile piece. It also gives me a very modest, _feminine_ vibe.” She motions with her hands. “I have to know. Where did you get it?”

He tightens his arms around himself, seeking comfort, attempting to replicate a warm hug from the arms of his girlfriend, to no avail. It was only a month ago when Peter learned that replicating Michelle’s warmth is impossible, but unfortunately, she does not arrive until tomorrow. He wants her comfort today. 

“You know, I was wondering the same thing the other day. It’s a really cool jacket,” Liz butts in, “So after bugging Peter for hours, he finally told me it’s a custom-made designer piece.”

Peter stares dumbly at her as she lies on his behalf.

She continues, “If I remember correctly, it’s a Leo Zelinsky jacket. Right, Peter?”

He is pretty certain that it is not, but he nods eagerly. “Right.”

“Really? I love Leo! I’ve never seen him create that style before,” Betty squints at the fabric, “You must feel really special, Peter.”

Peter averts his gaze to meet Liz’s, and she must have known he needed the warmth when she softly smiles at the small frown on his face. She threw the lifeline in without needing a cue, reeled him in before he went too far. It’s the comforting feeling that he needed: Liz having his back with quick thinking and making up answers on the spot.

He and Liz make a good team.

Because of that, he wants to trust her. 

Once Ned leaves the two of them to accompany Betty on her way out, Peter considers revealing the mystery woman who kept him flying back to the East Coast every chance he gets. Like some knight in shining armor, Liz rode in and saved the day, and like some devil on his shoulder, Peter is tempted and almost blurts out his feelings about a girl from New York City—almost shares with Elizabeth Allan the name of Michelle Jones.

Almost. 

However, as Peter slips off the jacket, something tells him to take a peek at its worn out label at the inner collar. 

So maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe magical intuition and sorcery had whispered into Liz’s ears what the truth is; but when he sees that the tag is sewn with bold letters, spelling out the designer name, _Zelinsky_, in striking red thread, Peter’s blood turns cold. 

With a racing heart, he eyes at how Liz mindlessly taps away at her phone and tries to make sense of it all. 

“Parker!” someone yells from outside, “We need you on stage fourteen!”

At the sound of his name, Liz turns to bid him goodbye. She is flying to New York tomorrow, she announces. Which is just as well because tomorrow, his girlfriend is flying in from Queens. But he doesn’t tell Liz that. How could he when she lied right through her teeth, only for it to be completely true?

Liz steps outside. He tosses the jacket onto a seat. 

Peter does not trust her one bit. 

* * *

The following morning, Ned leaves to pick up MJ at LAX, and Peter bounces around on set waiting for their arrival.

“Peter!” The director stops him with her weary eyes at the refreshments table as Peter is mid-sip of his third cup of coffee. “Are you feeling okay? You’re very jittery this morning.”

Peter nods, accompanied by an eager smile and eyes dancing with excitement. “I’m so great! Today’s a big day, and I’m looking forward to it.” 

A voice buzzes in her headset yet the director pays it no mind. Probably because Peter Parker plus caffeine times three equals a clumsy, frantic mess, and all further interactions with him must proceed with caution. She widens her eyes. “Wow, am I glad to hear that! I was afraid you wouldn’t like what we’re shooting today.”

As he goes in for another sip of his coffee, he freezes. Peter had definitely been referring to the fact that his girlfriend is coming to Los Angeles, but then again, the director didn’t know that. So now Peter’s worried. He shifts to put his cup down. 

“That’s ridiculous.” Peter busies himself with a powdered donut, careful not to mess up the suit and his makeup. “Who wouldn’t like to fight off the bad guy?”

A pause follows. The director watches as Peter attempts to fit the entire donut into his mouth. 

“Oh, that’s for tomorrow,” she answers awkwardly. Maybe she should have ignored it when she saw him down the first two cups. “We’re filming all of the death scenes today.” 

A muffled cry escapes from Peter, and a small puff of powder unfortunately falls onto his suit. The director gives him a forced smile. “I’m really excited to see what you have in store for us. You’ve definitely got the range. I know you’ll be great!” 

She shoots Peter a thumbs up before stalking off. 

Peter sighs and continues to munch on his donut with slumped shoulders. 

It’s no secret that death scenes are difficult, especially for Peter, and he was banking on not having to film them so soon. However, it’s only the fourth day, and here they are: doing the heavy stuff and reminding him of a devastating night when death had knocked on his front door, only to take someone else instead. A light turns on and floods the green screen covered set, and the bright color causes him to shake his head. _It’s not real,_ he assures himself, _It’s just acting._

Nonetheless, he bounces his leg in anxiety. Three cups of coffee was a very bad idea. 

Spider-Man won’t go first, the director tells him at nine o’clock. They will not need him on set until after lunch, because first, they have to get through the scenes with Captain America and his best friend and the terrifying mercy kill of Vision by the Scarlet Witch. However, Spider-Man’s death doesn’t have to be as violent, she tells him—but it will be the most personal, and that’s what scares him.

“You’ll be shooting it with Iron Man,” she informs Peter before she ushers him outside towards the trailers, “I’m thinking Spider-Man should die in his arms, and it could be a real tearjerker.”

He takes a deep breath. A _real_ tearjerker is the ghost of his uncle appearing in flashes whenever something even mildly reminds Peter of him, so Peter does not wait around to indulge in the director’s vision. The memory of his uncle starts to creep in, and thankfully, a sanctuary in the form of his trailer is only a few feet away. It’s kind of pitiful, but he plans on crying out all of his feelings before he has to start filming. 

“I know we didn’t give you guys any lines for this scene, so you’ll have to improvise. But the main thing we want to get across is how important this kid is to Iron Man, and how heartbreaking it is to have this kid ripped away from him.”

Well, when she puts it like that, it feels like a blow to Peter’s stomach. Looks like Spider-Man’s death will turn out to be violent and gruesome after all—violent and gruesome towards everyone’s emotional well-being. 

“Sounds great. I’ll see you later!” he replies as he bolts towards his door. 

Peter feels for the opening of the Spider-Man mask in his hands, swallowing down a lump in his throat and sensing a breakdown before he ever reaches his trailer. Instinct tells him to hide, and so he does by pulling the mask on. Blindly fumbling with the door, he’s not sure if the reason he is struggling to see is because of the mask or threatening tears, but either way, once he gets the door open, he finally let’s everything fall. His body. The waterworks. It’s almost been two years, but the pain of missing his uncle never dies. It’s alive and well and haunting Peter to this day. 

He slides to plop down on the floor and weeps.

“Peter?” a gentle voice interrupts his cries. 

He stills. The whole purpose of ducking into his trailer was so that no one would hear him cry and no one would witness him break, but he had failed to check if he is even alone.

But he knows that voice—he would recognize that voice in a crowded, noisy room.

“Peter? Is that you?” the voice repeats.

His name sounds safe and tender coming from the most beautiful girl in the world. And boy, does he melt.

“MJ?” He rips his mask off to get a good look at her sprawled across a bench. “You’re here already?”

His wet, reddening eyes are revealed to her, and immediately, MJ drops the book in her hand and scrambles to her feet. “Oh my god, you’re crying!” She falls to her knees beside him and cradles his head. “Are you hurt?”

Peter sucks in a breath. “Of course not. I’m not _actually_ Spider-Man, you know?” and she abruptly releases her hold on him and scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me. Don’t you do your own stunts?”

He blinks away the remaining tears in his eyes and leans back to take her in, wearing a Vote for Women t-shirt and baggy shorts that he knows to be his. MJ is here. She is finally here. In all of her adorable glory and black converse on her feet, looking like New York City in his Hollywood trailer. 

“I’m fine.” Peter finds her hand and joins it with his. “I was just practicing my crying and getting into character,” and before she can question the logic of his statement, he smiles like he knows something she doesn’t. “Today, Spider-Man dies in Iron Man’s arms.”

MJ squeezes her eyes shut and groans as if that would block out the big secret he had just spilled to her. “Spoiler alert!” she whines and pouts, and Peter can’t resist so he leans forwards to kiss it away. “Thanks for that,” she grudgingly mutters afterwards. 

“Welcome to California.” He makes a show of motioning to his tiny, cluttered trailer. “We’re happy to have you.”

She helps him to his feet. The soft pads of her fingers gently caress his face until he’s dry. “Well, as long as _you’re_ happy, that’s all that matters.” She peers at him with those eyes that he dreams about. “Want me to help you run some of your lines?”

The reality is, he isn’t happy, and Peter has learned to accept that his mourning still comes in flashes with every passing reminder about deaths, violent deaths, and tearjerkers. However, he has also learned that somehow, someway, MJ makes him forget all of that; pulling him from his thoughts and dragging him to euphoria. 

So sue him for not telling her about Uncle Ben—the real reason he came here to cry. Because his girlfriend is in his arms, giving him eyes he could die for, and maybe he doesn’t want to ruin their reunion with talks about his dead uncle. 

Which is why he clears his throat and smirks. “Are you sure about that? The script is _filled_ with spoilers.”

He almost wants to laugh. Just wait until she finds out who Nick Fury calls at the end of the movie. 

“You’ve got a point. I guess I’ll just have to ignore you while I finish this book about how capitalism and good old Uncle Sam brainwashed an entire nation,” MJ taunts, already backing away and towards the seat. She gestures to the book that she did not hesitate to drop at the sight of his sad eyes. 

“Okay, _hey._” Peter grabs for her hand and swiftly pulls her back to him. This girl already knows how to convince him. “I don’t like being ignored.” Her hands fly to his chest, their faces only mere inches apart when she quirks an eyebrow to challenge him. 

“You’ve seen me in my element,” she reasons, “It’s only fair if I get to see you in yours.”

Whatever MJ wants, MJ gets, and Peter has already caught onto this truth months ago. 

She flips through the script. The theatre kid in her eagerly reads at the makings of a movie, gasping at most parts and cursing the writers at others. _Is this an ultimatum?_ MJ wonders aloud at one page, _Only one scenario where they win? Don’t you die? Why do you have to die for the Avengers to win?_ Peter finds himself biting his tongue to refrain from divulging how it all ends.

Soon, he discovers that he can’t keep still inside his trailer. Not with MJ emoting through every line she reads, quivering her voice at the perfect times, throwing in an eye roll at the right places. (She makes a very convincing Doctor Stranger.) She is so convincing that Peter easily falls into character. He springs around the room, jumps onto a tabletop, squats in position. There is a gleam in her eye as MJ watches his every move, because Peter Parker is nowhere to be found. Right now, Spider-Man has overtaken his entire being. 

Before stepping foot into his trailer, Peter was about ready to break. The emptiness in his chest had flowered and stimulated tears to rush out like a flood, but then it all faded and pushed to the back burner when he had heard her voice. She and Spider-Man are a temporary fix to his grief, he knows this now, but as they near the death scenes, the pain begins to bloom again. Peter needs another fix. 

“You know what would be cool?” he interrupts before she can read another word, “In his next movie, Spider-Man kisses someone while he’s upside down.” 

Peter swings his legs to plant his feet on the floor. It is absolutely necessary to ground and steady himself before he does what he wants to do and says what he wants to say; because his knees will grow weak with the way she’s looking at him. Her eyes bore into his as he stands up and makes his way to where she lies across his blanketed couch. 

“That would be cool.” She slowly lowers the script. 

MJ licks her lips, an action that he does not miss, and he lets her know this by letting his eyes travel there. 

“I’m thinking, he’s out fighting crime, swinging through the city, and then, as he’s swinging by, he spots his girl on the ground, casually going about her day,” Peter describes and circles the couch before stopping at the end where her head lays, “So as to not reveal his identity, Spider-Man lowers himself from above, head first, and steals a little kiss.”

Peter turns his gaze downwards as MJ peers up at him standing behind her. Her brown eyes excite him. 

“He’s going to steal it?” she teases and tilts her neck further back, “He’s not going to ask first?”

Peter leans forward and rests each hand next to both of her ears, biting his lip to refrain from smiling at how even upside down, she has the most stunning face he has ever seen. 

MJ focuses on the lip between his teeth. That’s when he knows he’s got her. 

“Spider-Man’s very intuitive. He can pick up on all of the cues like, is she leaning closer? Is she licking her lips?” he trails off for a few seconds, observing that her eyes never leave his mouth, “Is she looking at mine for a bit too long?” Her breath hitches, parted lips, and god help him, he focuses there too. 

“Yours?” MJ asks dumbly.

Peter nods, “I’m yours,” answering an entirely different question than the one she had asked.

If someone had told stumbling, sweaty hands Peter Parker at the Met Gala that four months later he would be looking down at the stunning, taller woman whose legs had wrapped around his waist at the peak of their drunken night, now proclaiming that he is hers in this private room where no one else can hear, insinuating that he wants to kiss her like he’s never kissed anyone before—Peter Parker at the Met Gala would have probably passed out and suffered from an existential crisis. 

Who knew he could be this bold?

A blush forms on MJ’s cheeks at those two affectionate words, and a sense of pride begins to replace the pain in his chest. 

“I think he should ask anyway,” she replies playfully and unconvincingly. Her eyes are too engrossed at the decreasing distance between her and his lips as Peter leans further.

“Noted,” he smiles brightly. Peter refuses to break the tension just yet.

But he should know better. Growing impatience is one of his girlfriend’s very few flaws. Something must have snapped, because the next thing he knows, MJ is reaching out, gripping his cheeks and pulling his face to hers. They crash into a kiss so foreign yet so familiar, it dizzies him in the best way. Lips meet in tenderness and fervor; soft yet all-consuming, all at once. His knees grow weak as his mind is flooded with thoughts of beauty and grace and Michelle. _Michelle._ Pushing his hands deeper into the cushion, Peter presses further against her mouth, seeking unwavering balance at her touch. Her fingers slip their way through his hair and tugs and caresses the curls. And _oh, screw_ the death scene, because this is how he dies. Sweetly kissing Michelle Jones, literally head over heels, feeling like his whole world is flipped upside down. 

“That’s not fair,” he momentarily breaks away to whisper against her lips, teasing her as MJ strains upwards, trying to find them again, “You should’ve asked first.”

“Peter, I swear to god—” 

Before she gets the chance to curse him out, Peter lets her have his lips again.

Talking is an activity for later. Right now, the only feeling he can bear to confront is the feeling of her. 

At lunch, he takes her around set, giving her an exclusive tour of dressing rooms and stages. It’s so different from Broadway, MJ takes note. The atmosphere here is more streamlined, more focused. The buzz of adrenaline and movie magic is wild yet calculated, but it’s an art in and of itself. She cannot look away from the place where Peter Parker comes to thrive. 

She gets dragged with him into the momentarily empty hair and makeup trailer, where he shows off the pictures taped on the mirrors of every hairstyle the stylists had tried on him and every black and blue bruise that was painted on everyone’s skin. Soon after, they sneak into the room holding duplicates of all of the costumes. The precious, painfully expensive costumes. MJ lets her fingers lightly trace red iron helmets and vibranium star spangled shields; black cat suits woven with a strong metal thread and lined with a necklace of silver claws, an armour for an African king. 

“It’s kind of like The Met,” MJ awes with twinkling eyes, and Peter blushes at the memory of the night they first met. 

Overall, their journey around set is a behind-the-scenes look of the next blockbuster movie, and maybe she should have signed an NDA, but no one bothers to stop her and ask. To any cast members they run into, Peter merely introduces her as one of his friends from Queens. And it’s a solid cover, practically seamless. Most of his castmates are older and couldn’t care less about who a young man like him spends his time with, and there are no extras on set for a good couple of days. However, Peter never notices MJ’s tight lipped smile through every introduction.

When the hour arrives to film the death scene, she and Ned hang off to the side as Peter collapses into Tony’s arms and whimpers helplessly, heartbreakingly. _Oh, he’s good,_ MJ whispers to Ned, unknowing to the fact that he knows there is truth behind Peter’s methods. As she watches in amazement, Ned’s heart hurts at the sound of his best friend’s cries. 

On Friday, the shoot comes and goes all the same. Peter is needed in front of the camera for most of the day, leaving MJ and Ned to bond over 1) making fun of Peter and 2) their mutual opinions about best toppings on a pizza. They could provide a whole list of how they rate plain pepperoni to black olives and peppers; but they end up ordering buffalo chicken pizza, and that’s all anyone needs to know. 

Ned gets the chance to finally express praise and acclaim at her performance in _Hamilton._ Though, what really seals the deal for their newfound friendship is when MJ dives into a rant about the real-life racist figures the musical is based on and the lack of women in the cast, because Ned nods along and eagerly agrees, offering his own thoughtful insights. So by the time Peter returns, exhausted and sweating, his girlfriend and childhood best friend are pigging out in his trailer and jamming out to “Helpless” where MJ sings as Alexander Hamilton and Ned as Eliza Schuyler.

He observes the duo in wild amusement. Not only does his aunt absolutely adore MJ. But so does his best friend, and that means everything. 

“You’re an F.O.S. now.” Ned grins at her.

“What’s an F.O.S.?” 

“Friend of Spider-Man,” he explains, oblivious to the consequences of his next few words, “It’s you, me, and Liz. Well, there’s also Flash, but he works for Peter and doesn’t let Peter call him by his nickname. So I’m not sure if he really counts.”

No one notices at how MJ stiffens.

Once at Peter’s house, his team of stylists dresses him up and makes him over for the film festival. They slip him into a sport coat and top-shelf jeans, run a little gel in his hair and pat some powder onto his skin. And when he’s finished, he struts into his room to find MJ lounging on his bed, earning eyes from her as she blatantly checks him out. He never wants to leave her.

“Be my date tonight?” he blurts out, surprising not only her but also himself. 

It takes her a few moments of stunned silence before she finally agrees. Neither of them mention what this might mean for their so-called secret relationship. 

Upon arrival, he stops at the entrance to get his picture taken, photographers already rushing to publish photos of Hollywood’s newest money-maker, before he joins MJ and Ned inside to push through the throng and find seats. 

“What did you say this film festival was called?” MJ asks as they brush hands in the crowd.

“Osborn Film Festival.”

Immediately, she pulls her hand away and answers under her breath, “Great.” 

Luckily for the couple, the Osborn Film Festival is a low key event, hosted by the low key Osborn Institute for independent artists, led and overseen by Harry Osborn, a very low key person. He’s a private individual (the less paparazzi at the festival, the better) and doesn’t really talk much to anyone. He seeks out Peter though, as he always does, because wherever Peter Parker is, usually his gorgeous co-star, Elizabeth Allan, is somewhere nearby. And Harry Osborn is an interesting man who interests himself in Spider-Man’s love interest. 

But honestly, Peter finds it kind of pathetic. 

Needless to say, when Peter feels a firm slap on his back, he expects to find disappointment etched onto the man’s face after discovering that Liz is nowhere to be found, since she is temporarily miles and miles away on the other side of the country. However, as Peter turns away from the woman at his side, Harry’s attention is completely stolen by the sight of MJ wearing a simple floor-length, backless black dress. 

“Well, hello,” Harry greets her with a hint of… well, Peter can’t quite put his finger on it—curiosity, recognition, or attraction. Knowing Harry, it might all just be the same. However, MJ’s eyes grow wide when she sees him, and Peter definitely notices _that._

He flexes his jaw and refrains from doing something stupid like placing his arm around her waist and pulling her against his side. His mind wanders to unwanted places, envious places, so he reminds himself that green is not his best color. If anything, it’s actually his worst color (you don’t wear a green suit to a red carpet without learning this). And jealousy is ridiculously childish and perpetuates the toxic idea that another man finding his girlfriend attractive is a threat towards his masculinity. 

So Peter Parker is not jealous. Jealousy can be _ugly._

He’s just a little wary. 

“This is Michelle Jones,” Peter presents her to the man of the hour, “She’s a friend from Queens, New York.”

As he speaks, Harry’s gaze on her never falters. “Yeah, I feel like we’ve met before.”

_Oh, okay._ Peter chuckles and clears his throat. His eyes dart between the two of them. “What? Like in a past life?”

Neither Harry nor MJ seem to get the joke as they stare each other down. 

MJ crosses her arms. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Osborn.” 

An annoying suspicion nags at Peter as Harry reaches out to tensely shake her hand. His mind echoes of the reason his girlfriend came to visit California in the first place. 

“I never told you my name,” Harry points out with narrowed eyes. 

However, MJ only shrugs. “And yet, here you thought we had met before.”

They hold each other’s stare for a few moments more, while Peter silently begs in his mind, _Please, MJ, don’t tell me it was him._

“So, how is Liz?” Harry eventually asks, as expected. He faces Peter and steps a little closer.

“New York Fashion Week,” Peter answers with a spiteful grin, “She didn’t tell you?”

“No.” Harry cuts his eyes to MJ. “She doesn’t tell me a lot of things.”

Before Peter can ask him to elaborate, Harry excuses himself and disappears into the crowd. 

The festival proceeds smoothly. Films of every genre are showcased to the attendees, and sparks of light dance over their skins as the scenes change. Peter steals a glance at MJ to his right and risks a touch of their hands side-by-side. Her eyes flicker down to their fingers, the crease between her brows becoming more prominent. Peter frowns. Instead of sport coats and backless dresses, he wishes they were back at that movie theater in Queens wearing sweatshirts with the hoods up. Because there, he could lean over and kiss the crease away when the screen goes dark. Because there, no one would be able to see. 

“Peter,” MJ does not look at him as she whispers, “Remind me to tell you something later.”

He nods despite the fact that her eyes don’t reach his.

A stroke before midnight, she slips away to the bathroom, pulling out her phone and punching in a number. Peter twists the watch around his wrist as he waits for her to return. And twenty minutes later, she does; mascara a little smeared, eyes slightly red. He almost envelops her in a hug the moment he sees her, but he holds back, fists twitching at his sides. Instead, with worried eyes, he asks her what’s wrong. 

“Not now.” MJ shakes her head and immediately spots Harry Osborn lingering nearby. “Not here.”

They weave through the crowd, dodging cameras, side-stepping past familiar faces, escaping at the back entrance. Both of them keep their distance as they exit, even though Peter wants nothing more than to hold her hand and guide her to the car. Ned walks beside her though, so it will have to do. 

Once in the backseat, MJ wriggles the material of her dress, bunching it in knots at her lap as she stares out of the tinted windows. One of Peter’s legs bounces in the seat, and Ned looks dubiously at the anxiety-ridden pair. Therefore, when they pull up to Ned’s house, he wastes no time in exiting the vehicle. Because someone is about ready to break, and he really does not want to stick around to find out who.

“Quick question. Completely theoretical.” MJ turns to look at Peter once they’re alone. The car speeds forward in the night, and he catches glimpses of her distraught face through each passing streetlight. “If you were a superhero, what would your superpower be?”

Peter squints upon hearing the random question and suspects that she’s avoiding the elephant in the room, or at the moment, the elephant in the car. So he answers with the first thing he can think of.

“That’s easy. I would read minds.”

He can tell she wasn’t expecting him to answer so quickly. “Why would you want to read minds?”

Peter drums his fingers on his thigh and strains his eyes in the darkness. 

“So I could read yours.”

“Why?” MJ probes for a reason, “You can ask me anything, and I’d tell you.”

His fingers move to fiddle with a loose thread on his coat. He shrugs. “I know that.” 

Although, he wonders, _does he really?_

“But you don’t share much,” he continues and begins to pick at the thread, “I mean, you may mention something and touch on it, but you never want to dwell on it. I can tell you hold back, like you don’t want to trouble me. You held back on the phone the other night.” He joins his hands together when the temptation to unbuckle his seatbelt and slide closer to her arises. 

“So, yeah,” Peter concludes with a nod of his head, “I’d read your mind. All the time, so I could know. Because we’ve been seeing each other for months now, yet, I still don’t know enough about you.”

She holds her breath for a moment, and suddenly, he feels like he did at the Met Gala, when he had first shared an opinion with her and then feared he had been too assertive. 

MJ sighs and releases the grip on her dress. “I think you know me better than anyone.”

“Well, here’s what you need to know about me.” Peter gulps. “I’m the type of person that never wants to stop learning. Especially when it comes to you.”

He is quite certain she starts chewing at her nails, and as she turns away from him, hears her mutter, “Fuck.”

It’s one in the morning by the time they reach his home. The streets of his neighborhood are brightly lit, but the silence is deafening. Coming from all of the houses, coming from her. It worries him to no end.

Once inside, they are quick to undress and prepare for bed. They share the sink in the bathroom and quietly brush their teeth before taking turns in the shower. Peter stands stationary under the showerhead for a few minutes and lets the water beat into his hair. It calms and steadies him and massages away an impending headache as he braces himself for whatever she’s going to share with him. It’s thirty minutes past one when he shuts off the water and steps out. 

Peter finds her sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his tank top and shorts, feet planted on the floor and her head hung low; sitting like if the moment comes, she can bolt. Like she doesn’t already have a place underneath the sheets: she always sleeps on the left side, and conveniently, he favors the right. 

“You said I hold back,” she begins when he appears in front of her, “This is me trying not to do that anymore, at least not with you.”

MJ tucks her hair behind both ears as she watches Peter pull his shorts on. “You said you want to know everything, and I want to tell you everything. And that means you’re probably going to have to stick around for a while, because there is _a lot_ to know. It might take forever to learn everything about me.”

Peter dries his hair before slinging his towel onto a hanger. 

“Forever could be spent on worse things,” he casually admits like those words don’t knock the air out of her lungs.

“Peter.” She struggles to breath evenly. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah?” He moves to sit beside her. “Well, I am too.”

She turns her gaze to the floor and wiggles her toes against the hardwood. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

But Peter just shakes his head. “I mean this.”

“You’re not going to after I tell you my secret.” MJ faces her body to his. 

“How can you be so sure?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge. “Try me.”

She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. The fan in his room gives rise to goosebumps on her skin, and when she opens her eyes, she wraps her arms around herself. “It’s not that easy.”

“Okay,” Peter breathes out. If they’re sharing tonight, maybe he should go first. “How about this? A secret for a secret?”

MJ looks at him with wide eyes. “You have a secret too?”

To be fair, his secret is no secret to his best friend or his coworkers, who sometimes give him pitying glances like the director had given him the day before. But it’s a secret he had selfishly kept from his girlfriend, in part, because he doesn’t want a pitying glance from her as well.

He sheepishly smiles. “My favorite animal is a tiger.”

She drops her mouth open, because _he cannot be serious right now._

“No offense, but that’s not exactly a groundbreaking secret.”

“No, no. Hear me out. I’m not done.” He brings and crosses his legs onto the bed, and MJ mirrors him as they face each other; their bare knees touching. “When I was younger, my parents died, but you already know that. But what you don’t know is that Aunt May was married to my dad’s brother.” 

“_Was_ married?”

Peter hangs his head and runs a hand through his hair. This is always the toughest part. Getting the words out. Enduring the pitying stares. He can’t look her in the eye and say it. 

“He was murdered two years ago.”

She has a sharp intake of breath. 

“Anyway, when I was like, I don’t know, ten years old,” he carries on without acknowledging the frown that has found its way onto MJ’s face, “Aunt May and my uncle, Uncle Ben, took me to Tiger Mountain at the Bronx Zoo. And I remember the two of them arguing about zoos and whether they’re ethical or not. It was very complicated, and I wasn’t smart enough to keep up. But there was this one point, when I first saw a tiger, I literally almost peed my pants. I was so scared, and I was just shaking uncontrollably, because it was so big, and I felt like it could eat me entirely with just one bite.”

“It probably could,” MJ interjects, and he peeks up at her.

“Right?” Peter sits up straighter. “I was so terrified, I think I started crying. But Uncle Ben,” he sighs and shakes his head. Saying his name still burns his throat and guts his stomach, but this is how Peter can keep him alive. By saying his name and telling his story. “He held me and promised he would keep me safe. Now, I didn’t believe him. I mean, how could I when the tiger was there, bearing teeth that could rip him in half? 

“So, instead, he let me go and tried something else.” Peter absentmindedly starts drawing circles on MJ’s knees with his fingertips, and she studies him with admiration. “He began listing all the ways that me and the tiger were alike. Like how a tiger is strong and brave and… beautiful.”

“He said you were beautiful?” she repeats in awe. 

Peter nods. “Yeah, he did.”

MJ bumps his fingers with her own. “He’s right. _You are._”

Peter desperately tries to stop his heart from beating out of his chest.

“It didn’t work. I was still scared. But then, after he died, May and I visited Tiger Mountain again.” His eyes begin to water. “And I wasn’t a scared little boy anymore. I just wanted him back.”

A tear slips free down Peter’s face. MJ asks, “You weren’t just practicing how to cry yesterday, were you?”

His hand reaches out to wipe the tear away. There’s no use in lying anymore. 

“Death scenes are really hard for me.”

A heavy silence fills the room after his confession, and they listen to each other breathing for a few moments. MJ finally knows what haunts him every night, and it’s the act of sharing this secret with her that makes him feel even closer to her.

They let the memory of his uncle sit there with them in this moment. Uncle Ben had a whole life full of stories, ones that Peter never got to witness and never had the chance to hear. One day, when everything hurts less, he’ll ask Aunt May to tell them to him. And hopefully that day is sooner than later.

There’s no need to dwell on it, however. Because, suddenly MJ breaks the silence with a whisper into the air between them. 

“I’m bisexual.”

It’s like a glass shatters or a wall comes crumbling down. It’s music to his ears as Peter grabs her hand and caresses the red polish on her fingernails. The weight behind those words is all too familiar to him. He knows what this moment means for her. 

Peter presses a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re not special, MJ. So am I,” he jokes and playfully rolls his eyes.

She forces a chuckle and smiles sadly at how he gingerly handles her fingers. 

“What I mean is, I’m not out.”

He nods encouragingly. “Okay.”

Then, she lands the blow.

“And neither is my ex-girlfriend.” 

_Shit,_ Peter thinks, _There it is._ The continuation of the conversation they started last Sunday night. And all through the evening, he thought it might have been Harry Osborn.

“Oh.” He pauses for a beat. “You’re not out to anyone?”

MJ pulls her hand from his and rests it on her lap. His heart drops as she does it.

“I mean, I’m out to a few people.” She looks anywhere but at him, scanning his room for something to lock her eyes on. “I’m out to my dad, but my mom passed away before I could tell her. Um, none of my grandparents know.” She furrows her brows and decides to just look at her hands. “Not that they’ve expressed any prejudice or anything. I just, I don’t know if they’d understand. My ex knows, uh, obviously. Shuri also knows. She was the first person I told, actually. 

“And now you know,” she concludes with a shrug, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I should have told you.”

Peter offers her hand, flipping it so that his palm is up. Just in case she needs it. “You told me now. That’s enough. That’s okay. I’m happy you felt like you could tell me this.”

And even though MJ wants to, she doesn’t take his hand. Mainly because, she’s not sure if Peter would want to hold hers after she tells him everything.

“My ex-girlfriend. The bad experience in a secret relationship.” It seems to physically pain her to talk about this. “I didn’t tell you about her, because I didn’t want to out her,” MJ apologizes profusely, and her lip begins to tremble so much that it scares him, “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for even _considering_ her feelings over yours.”

“Why do you keep saying you’re sorry? It’s fine,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. Peter wants her to understand that she doesn’t owe him anything, “I don’t know her. It doesn’t matter.”

“But that’s the thing.” MJ balls her hands into fists, closing them off from his for the time being. Time seems to slow down when she says, “She’s not a stranger.”

Suddenly, Peter can’t look at her. All he can seem to stare at is the red nail polish on her thumb, screaming at him the same way the red thread on her gray jacket did. Designer. Custom-made. Zelinsky. 

That name. Liz had known that the jacket had that name.

She owes him this, Peter realizes. An explanation as to why the movie actress knows things about her favorite jacket that he doesn’t even know. 

“Oh, is she still your friend?” he asks, refusing to connect the dots that are glaring at him in red. 

MJ chews on her lips and grips at the duvet on his bed. 

“No,” she replies, “But she’s yours.”

Of all the secrets she could have shared, MJ really got him beat.

Instantly, Peter recoils and retracts his hands. He feels dirty. Betrayed, even. Liz had looked him in the eye and played with the pockets of the jacket, knowing fully well that it belonged to the girl he was seeing. The girl _Liz_ used to see. And yet, Liz never said anything. With a start, Peter realizes, neither did MJ.

So this time, Peter is the one crossing his arms and refusing to meet her eyes. 

“She’s your friend. You know her,” she pleads as soon as she notices him pulling away, “I didn’t want to out her.”

He huffs, “Liz is not my friend,” and stares at the gray jacket hanging over the edge of his hamper. He thinks of Liz’s kind face, the girl who swore she would have his back. Had she worn the jacket before him? Is that how she knew?

“When she first got the role, she told me she was never going to tell you,” MJ frantically explains, “And that meant she was never going to tell anyone about _me._”

Peter slowly shakes his head. The puzzle pieces finally click into place.

“You knew who I was.” He frowns as he recalls his fumbling mess when he introduced himself to Shuri and the amount of bubbly it took for him and MJ to get their hands on each other. “At the Met, when I introduced myself, you said you knew.” 

She reaches a hand to grip the back of her neck and kneads at the muscle near her shoulders. She shrugs. “You’re Spider-Man. It’s kinda obvious.” 

He swears if his blood could boil, it would. He twists his bottom lip in between his fingers. “So when you said that you had watched Spider-Man several times before you ever met me, were you only watching it because Liz was in the movie?” 

“Yeah,” MJ shakes her head, “Why else would I have watched it?” 

Peter scoffs. He’s upset, but at the same time, he understands. And that’s the worst part of it all. Liz is closeted, especially to him, apparently. MJ had only been trying to respect that. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he exhales with slumped shoulders, “If you didn’t want to out her?” 

She considers this for a moment. It hurts him now that he knows Liz never wanted to tell him, and he begins to wonder why. MJ releases a shaky breath. “Eventually. When I knew you wouldn’t see her as often. Whenever you’re done doing interviews and photoshoots with her.” 

“I’m going to be seeing her for a few years,” he answers, “Over the weekend, they signed her on for more movies. They offered her the same contract they offered me.” 

He shouldn’t be surprised when MJ nods. “She told me when I called her tonight. So I knew I had to tell you right away.” 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. His girlfriend and his co-star _know_ each other. 

“Is she mad at you?” he asks, opening his eyes again, “For telling me?”

“It doesn’t matter.” MJ bites her lip and plays with the hem of her shorts. “I’m not responsible for her feelings anymore.”

Peter studies her regretful eyes. 

“Did you love her?” 

She laughs briefly. “Unfortunately.”

Then, he studies her frowned lips.

“That tattoo. Love more,” he guesses, “Is that her?”

“Matching tattoos that are conveniently our initials. Romantic, right?” she remarks in a manner implying that she disagrees, “It was supposed to be a promise. Our little secret. Fuck, I was so stupid.” 

The clock on his wall nears two in the morning, but MJ’s secret weighs heavier than his tired eyelids.

“At least you chose a spot where it fades away,” he offers in a fleeting attempt to comfort both her and himself.

MJ muses, “Fading away. How fitting. At least she kept true to her promise.” 

“How so?” 

The frown on her face deepens, the sadness in her voice becoming more obvious. Peter tightens his arms around his chest and shields it. He can’t take another heartbreak.

“She loved more by falling in love with someone else,” she averts her gaze and murmurs, “And I have no idea who.” 

* * *

That night, Peter dreams of Elizabeth Allan.

It should be worth mentioning that he also dreams of MJ.

Except lately, he always seems to dream of MJ.

So this isn’t news to him. 

However, this time, Peter is not the subject of her affections. 

It is Elizabeth Allan who lays in her bed instead. 

* * *

They have the whole day to themselves on Saturday, Peter being free of any obligations until dinnertime, and MJ having finished the rest of her book on capitalism. They stay in bed until around noon, both coming in and out of sleep, dreaming half-asleep, neither of them wanting to face the music of their secrets uncovered. Because the night before is left hazy in his mind, but the truth left behind is starkly clear. Once upon a time, Liz and MJ were girlfriends, and sometime between then and now, Liz had broken her heart. 

When they both awake, MJ tells him the story of how she and Liz fell in love. He doesn’t want to hear it. Not really. But he also wants to know what he’s going up against; who MJ might compare him to, time and time again. So he listens as she recounts one fateful San Franciscan night in November, when they met through their mutual friend, Harry Osborn. 

MJ can’t remember a time when Harry wasn’t crazy for Liz. His attraction is a given. Always constant, never-ending. She assumed that the two of them would eventually get together. Maybe get married in the future and pop out some kids down the line. Until two days before the New Year hits, Liz visits her apartment in New York with a bottle of wine in her system and a drunken confession on her lips. 

Barely even four months in, Liz had ended things in April, while she had been traveling the world with Peter on the Spider-Man press tour. The breakup came out of the blue, being that just a couple of weeks before, they had gotten their tattoos together. It was a mad love, MJ describes it. A dizzying love but also a fleeting one at that. A love that couldn’t shine bright enough, it ended up suffocating in the shadows, before Liz had snuffed out the flame that no one ever saw burning in the first place. 

So yeah, this new piece of information makes things complicated now, especially with the insecurity freshly planted into Peter’s brain. He likes to think that MJ had started seeing him without any ulterior motives, but a little voice in his head won’t shut up about how MJ and Liz stopped seeing each other in April. And then a month later, he and MJ started seeing each other in May.

“Are you using me?” he blurts out over their afternoon breakfast.

MJ nearly burns her tongue sipping on a hot cup of coffee. “Excuse me?”

Peter stirs his corn flakes around in the bowl and watches how they dampen in the milk.

“Am I just a rebound or something?”

She lowers the mug to the table and stares at the steam rising off the surface. 

He would never admit this to her, but being a rebound doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world as long as her face is the first thing he wakes up to.

“Yes? No? I don’t know.” She scrunches her face. “Maybe it started that way, but you’re not anymore.”

He answers meekly, “Okay.”

“_Is_ that okay?”

_Not at the moment,_ he wants to say, _But I’ll get there._

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t love her anymore, right?”

“Right,” she agrees.

“Then, yeah.” Peter nods and lifts a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “It’s okay.”

Soon, the Internet floods with pictures of celebrities attending New York Fashion Week. Celebrities like Pepper Potts and Sharon Carter, and now, introducing the young newcomer, Elizabeth Allan. It’s a lot of endless scrolling on every social media platform, of just fashion, models, the lot. So Peter makes the decision not to look at his phone for the entire day. He can’t stand to see Liz’s face. Instead, he takes up baking brownies with his girlfriend. Eugene Thompson, however, has other plans for him.

“Parker! The weekend hits and suddenly you fall off the face of the Earth?” 

Peter had made the mistake of answering Eugene’s fifth phone call. 

“I mean, really? You ignore my texts, ignore my calls, and you didn’t even post about anything from last night.”

If only Eugene had known why Peter had gone radio silent.

“Liz is out in New York, blowing up Instagram. The least you could do is acknowledge that you have a life and that you left your house Friday night.”

Peter runs a hand down his face, and MJ raises an eyebrow at the muffled sound of yelling through his phone.

“Sorry, Flash,” he apologizes in annoyance, “I’ve been laying low this week. Need I remind you who was all over the tabloids last weekend?”

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just call me that,” Eugene scoffs, “And yeah, how could I forget when your little girlfriend was seen with you last night?”

Peter thinks his stomach might have literally just dropped. He shoots up from his slouched position at the kitchen counter. “Wait! What?”

“Lucky you have me, Peter,” Eugene chimes, “Only one source claimed to have seen you with a woman, but I paid them not to run with the story. You’re welcome.”

Peter groans and presses his head onto the tabletop as MJ looks on with concern.

“Who saw me?” he asks.

MJ scrapes chocolate residue from the pan and offers it on a spoon. Peter turns his head and invites it into his mouth.

Eugene chuckles. “Betty Brant.”

Peter’s eyes bug out as he licks the spoon clean. MJ cringes and whispers, “What’s wrong? Did I put too much sugar?”

He shakes his head. “Brant?” Peter exclaims, “I just did an interview with her.”

“That, you did,” Eugene concurs, “She’s a highly respected journalist, but she’s also one of the most ambitious and hungry. I’d watch out for her.”

The oven dings, announcing the completion of its preheating, and MJ cheers as she scrambles for potholders in his cabinets.

“I hope Michelle doesn’t mind,” his publicist sighs when he hears the faint sound of her voice, “But I need you to do something.”

The granite on his forehead feels cold, and Peter tries to study the swirls in the countertop at this close proximity. “Already?”

“Well, not _already,_ like at this very instant. More like _later,_” Eugene instructs him with one of the very basic methods of fan service, “She’s posting a picture at five o’clock, and I need you to comment something sweet.”

There’s a thud as MJ pops their brownies into the oven and bumps the door closed, the buttons beeping when she sets up the timer.

“But _why?_” he whines childishly. He should learn to get over it, Peter knows. And he will. Eventually. But at the moment, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about Liz and about how her lips have kissed his girlfriend’s or how her arms have held MJ’s. There is that petty part of him that never wants to see her again, so that he can just be with MJ without the fear of being compared to perfect, put-together Elizabeth Allan.

“The fans, Peter,” Eugene exasperates, “It’s for the _fans._”

Once Eugene is finished going over their to-do list and next week’s agenda—_We had an arrangement that Osborn Film Festival would have your attendance as long as you post about the event, so Peter, please do not forget!_—he goes off on a tirade about the misuse of his nickname and nearly cusses the movie star out before refraining and remembering to maintain professionalism. Although, he hangs up the phone as soon as Peter begins to apologize.

“I changed my mind,” Peter abruptly declares, finally allowing his forehead to leave the table. He sits up straight and swivels in his chair, catching MJ pad around the kitchen and into his pantry. 

“Changed your mind for what?”

“My superpower.” After last night, he decides that being able to read someone’s mind is dangerous. There are some things he wouldn’t want to know. “I would rather have invisibility.”

A few seconds later, she emerges with a family sized bag of potato chips. “Okay, what would you do if you could be invisible?”

“I would also make you invisible,” he answers matter-of-factly, “And we could go out on real dates and hold hands as we walk the streets. I could even kiss you in the middle of Times Square.”

The sound of the bag ripping pierces the air. She claws inside for a handful of chips.

“Peter,” she voices, “Times Square is gross.”

“Okay, how about Paris?”

Peter reaches over to steal a chip from the bag, and MJ pretends to swat his hand away. 

“How do you go from Times Square to Paris?” 

He feigns offense. “Why are you questioning me? Wouldn’t you want to kiss me on top of the Eiffel Tower?”

Peter quietly wonders if she had ever traveled the world. And if so, did she travel it with Liz? 

“You know,” MJ starts and waves a chip in the air for good effect, “I read that the Eiffel Tower was secretly built as a mind control antenna to create an army of the insane.”

And just like that, she reminds him of why this insecurity of his is unnecessary. Because MJ is here, with _him_—baking brownies, munching on his potato chips, talking about conspiracies like they’re the most interesting topics in the world. So what if she traveled the world with Liz? MJ could travel it again with him.

“Oh, wow,” he exhales.

“Which is why it’s in my top five of places I want to visit,” she finishes and pops the chip into her mouth, “So, yeah. I’d love to kiss you on top of the Eiffel Tower. When do we leave?”

It goes without saying that Peter has to stop himself, right then and there, from booking them the next flight out to France. 

Over the next few hours, they move onto red velvet cupcakes, MJ sheepishly admitting that the color is her favorite, and well, Peter grins from ear to ear and tells her that it’s his favorite color on _her._ At this remark, she blushes, deeply and ironically, and he pokes her reddened cheeks to prove his point. 

When five o’clock rolls around, Liz drops her anticipated picture, wearing a crimson suit and killer heels. Peter can’t help but feel a little violated at the coincidence, because _okay, fine,_ Liz looks great, but MJ _owns_ the color red. Or maybe he’s just a little bit biased. 

MJ rests her chin on his shoulder and watches as he stares at the keyboard on his screen. His thumbs move to type and then delete. Type and then delete. Over and over again. One might think he is being held at gunpoint with the way he’s so reluctant to comment something sweet.

“It’s fan service,” Peter explains after a ridiculous amount of attempts. 

“I know.”

“It also probably has something to do with the news release about Liz returning for Spider-Man.” He tries to type again but after a few words, he changes his mind. “People want to see me supporting her.”

“Of course,” she nods, her chin moving with his shoulder.

Ultimately, he settles for a simple ‘Beautiful’ paired with a red heart and immediately receives a text message from Eugene that reads _Thanks :)_ as if the compliment was meant for him all along. 

At seven o’clock, Peter brings MJ along with him for dinner at the director’s house down in Westwood. It’s more like a mansion, actually, but even still, the corridor and dining area is brimming with the entire cast and crew and their families. With a house this big, it’s easy for it to feel empty. But tonight, the house is at its maximum occupancy, bustling with lively, joyous noise. The tinkling of spoons against plates and wine pouring into glasses rings soundly throughout the not-so-humble abode. Chandeliers glisten in every room. Spiraling staircases rise three stories. Marble floors span the hallways. And Peter is pretty sure the toilet played music when he flushed it. 

A delicious aroma wafts from the kitchen. Laughter erupts from the small ring of people gathered around Sam and Bucky. Someone fires up the karaoke machine, and suddenly, Hope and Scott are belting out a song from the 70’s that Peter is too young to fully enjoy. He thinks it might be Led Zeppelin though, but who knows?

And as they dine, Peter identifies Carol Danvers, a woman who is not part of the movie but will appear in the next motion picture, debuting as the first female Avenger lead. Of course, MJ has to get a picture with her. How could she not, especially when Valkyrie quickly jumps into the subsequent shots, photobombing the pair? They pose with clenched fists, shoulders pulled back and stern faces, and Peter beams behind the camera at MJ looking like the leader he has always known she is. 

She could definitely be a superhero, Peter believes. One day, MJ is going to save the world.

Ten o’clock arrives in the blink of an eye, and Eugene interrupts his night by forwarding his picture taken at the film festival. Peter rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his drink. He quickly taps away and uploads the picture. 

“Damn,” MJ remarks as she looks at her phone, “I wish I could comment about how _good_ you look.”

Her eyes shine with elation while she studies the picture of him. Peter leans towards her with a self-satisfied smile.

“Or you could just say it to my face.”

He expects a witty response. Usually, this is where she lowers her phone and turns to face him head on, looking him dead in the eye while she lists all the things she wants to do with him tonight. Trying her best to keep a straight face. His line is supposed to be her cue. So that she could start something they couldn’t finish here. So that they can leave and rush home and fall into the bed one last time before she leaves for New York the following morning. 

However, she misses her cue, because something on her screen keeps her attention. She clenches her jaw. Her eye twitches. There’s a look of steeled defeat that he only saw in Angelica Schyuler—but Michelle Jones does not know how to lose. Peter grasps the phone from her hand.

Underneath his picture, the comments come streaming in by the hundreds. Peter’s gotta hand it to himself. He looks good. _Really_ good. But there is only one comment that rises to the top as its amount of likes rapidly increase at an alarming rate.

It’s a comment from Liz.

_My handsome Spidey._

Peter thinks his heart might have stopped.

Now, they must improvise. They may have missed their cue, but it doesn’t take much for them to get back on track. Peter makes his rounds around the house, bidding goodnight to everyone he comes across. It’s been fun, and the food was delicious, giving his compliments to the director and her wife. But unfortunately, he must leave, because he is needed at home. And if he doesn’t leave within the next five minutes, his girlfriend might pull him into the bathroom with the singing toilet and have him take her over the sink. 

So, he really must go. Because the toilet might start playing The Beatles, and no offense to the beloved band or anything, but Peter definitely does not want to have sex while listening to their songs. 

By the time they stagger into his dark house, it is ten minutes past eleven. MJ wastes no time as she pushes his buttoned shirt past his shoulders before they even reach the bedroom, haphazardly flinging it onto the floor that he had scrubbed while on his hands and knees earlier in the week. Maybe he was meant to clean the house for situations like these. A minute later, she throws herself onto the bed, a mess of curls fanning around her head, and pulls him down with her. He looks at his watch and then chucks it off. 

“It’s eleven-eleven,” he remarks, “Make a wish.”

“I wish I didn’t have to leave you tomorrow,” she admits without hesitation. Peter presses his forehead to hers and tries to steady his breathing. 

He is absolutely, completely gone for her. 

It’s different now. Desperate even. It’s not jealous sex or _You’re mine and no one else’s_ sex. It’s tantalizing kisses and whispered promises into the void, as she praises him of how good he looks between her legs, how good he _feels_ when he uses his tongue. Using her body’s responses to perfect how he touches her and to understand the best places where she likes him. “There. Right there. Do that again,” she begs, and he delivers, writing love letters into her core. She squirms in agony and ecstasy all at once, and it drugs her, drugs _him._ Peter brings her over the edge, letting a wave of bliss crash over her while holding her hips down so she has to ride it away. And then, when the water clears, it’s nibbles on his ear, the soft pulling of his hair, before MJ traces her lips down his stomach and wraps her lips around where he wants her most. The sounds she makes are sinful, whether he’s in the heat of her throat or the heat of her core, it still feels like heaven all the same. 

“You make me feel so good, Peter,” she whimpers into his neck once he pushes inside, “No one can ever make me feel this way.”

And that’s what does it for him. Her praises. Her voice. Putting into words what he does to her. Peter has to hold himself back from finishing on the spot. 

When MJ talks to him like this, Liz is farthest from his mind. 

They never want the morning to come, so they stay awake into the night. Some time around three o’clock, he reveals that he misses her. _Why? I’m right here,_ she says her line. _Yeah, but you’ll be gone when the sun rises. So I miss you,_ he recites his. 

MJ sighs at the irony. Summer is only starting to end, but already the tables have turned. This time, she’s the one doing the leaving. Peter is the one being left behind.

“I miss you too,” she answers.

At six in the morning, she calls for a car. The driver loads her suitcase into the trunk.

“No paparazzi around here?” MJ chuckles as she lingers in the doorway.

“Nope,” Peter says with a pop, “Not in my friendly neighborhood.” 

She looks at him for a while longer, like she wants to pause this frame and capture it into memory, locking this moment in time. Maybe because she’s scared that they’re never going to get a moment like this anytime soon. He reaches for her hand, stopping her from walking to the car just yet. Maybe because he’s scared of the same thing.

“You never told me what your superpower would be,” he chooses that silly question as his final words before she goes, “So?”

She turns his hand over and traces the outlines in his palm. “I’d be able to fly.”

“Where would you go if you could fly?” Peter relishes her hand in his, “Paris? The Eiffel Tower, I assume.”

MJ slowly lowers his hand and pulls her arm back to her side. The fear of her leaving flickers on his face until she steps closer, shy eyes gazing at him behind a few strands of hair that have fallen onto her face.

“Not without you,” she answers with a shake of her head, “If I could fly, I’d just come back to you.”

_Please don’t go._

“I wish you could fly.”

She bows her head and lets out a soft laugh. “Flying. That would be alright, wouldn’t it?”

And then, he lets her go. MJ backs away, smiling at him like she’s never smiled before, and Peter can’t take it anymore, falling out of denial. He admits. He is _insanely_ jealous. Of New York, of Broadway, of Liz Allan who got to see that smile before he did. 

So, fuck it. 

Let the whole world know that he has a girlfriend.

Secret relationships are stupid anyway. 

Peter retreats into his house. For a short while, he foolishing thinks that they can do it. He believes more moments like this will come sooner if they didn’t have to hide. Because celebrities date and fall in love and have committed relationships that work out all the time. 

Right?

But it’s not until MJ posts a picture of her and Carol from the previous night, a caption insinuating that she coincidentally crossed paths with the actress, that Peter learns he is terribly wrong.

_We need to talk._

Liz never texts him, and yet. 

_It’s about MJ._

His stomach plummets. 

Peter leaves Liz on read.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you feel the angst building? lol i'm scared.
> 
> up next, we meet brad davis. get ready.
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated <3
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading this, because i really enjoy writing this!
> 
> P.S. i'm clearly a sucker for references, and of course, i added a lot in this chapter again. did you catch any of them? also did anyone guess or suspect that mj's ex is liz? 
> 
> **DISCLAIMER - PLEASE READ!**  
to some of you, i think it's pretty obvious what one of the biggest inspirations is for this fic. however, i will never explicitly mention or address it. also, i want to clarify that i have no opinions or beliefs on the matter. people's relationships, especially private ones, are nobody's business, and i hope that fact shines through in this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on tumblr: [@rockyblue](https://rockyblue.tumblr.com)


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